By Any Means Necessary
by n1h1l4dr3m
Summary: Sequel to The Ends Don't Justify The Means. Neal is forced to choose between trusting Peter or finding his own way out of a difficult situation. *No Slash.* FatherPeter!SonNeal. Language, spanking, hurt/comfort.
1. In Which Peter Discovers A Secret

Author's note:

This is a sequel to The Ends Don't Justify The Means.

I appreciate everyone's boisterous upset over my epilogue...I thought it was kind of clear by "I'm working on a few more White Collar fics" that I didn't intend to leave it hanging! I meant for the epilogue to segue into this story...I'm sorry, put down your angry pitchforks!

Also, this is *not* going to be a part of Neal's backstory. This is a continuation of the Ammon saga. I've taken some small liberties, naturally, with my creation of Ammon and how he has managed to exert such control over Neal's life...but I do plan on doing a Neal backstory, staying as cannon as possible, except, of course, where the creative license will need to be in place to discuss Neal's exploits as a young hustler in the Pool Halls of Saint Louis.

Same warnings as last story: consensual spanking of an adult, and no slash.

* * *

... Peter walked down the stairwell in June's house. His phone beeped, and he realized he had a text message from Jones. "You might want to come into the office. Got some evidence you should see."

Peter sighed, texted Jones that he was on his way, and then called his wife.

"Hon, I'm gonna be another hour or two. I need to go back to the office." He could practically hear the irritation in El's voice, even though he doubted anyone else would be able to pick out her frustration with his late hours.

"All right. I'll be here, hon." El sighed and got up to dump Peter's food into Satchmo's bowl. Peter told his wife goodbye, and vowed to bring her flowers, or something, tomorrow at lunch.

It was a quick drive to work. Peter walked into the almost-empty bullpen. Despite the text-summons into work, he was surprised to see the lights were on and that Jones still working. At this hour, especially after such a high-profile case, he expected the office to be entirely empty. "What are you working on, Jones?"

"Ah, nothing much, boss. Something just doesn't seem right about this whole thing. I'll show you." Jones shrugged and tossed a stack of eyewitness testimonies onto the table. "Have you reviewed the footage from the take-down?" Peter shook his head no, and sat down at the large conference room desk.

Jones thumbed through an index and then consulted the pile of boxes. He found the corresponding box and retrieved two DVDs. "Here." He slid them down the table to his boss.

"Thanks." Peter popped one into the computer and fiddled with the projector. After a few seconds he saw Neal standing at the subway with his phone pressed to his ear. He pressed fast-forward and amidst all the high-speed traffic he saw Ammon's taxi arrive. He hit play and watched as he and Neal exchanged words, and then the FBI agent arrest Ammon. Jones grabbed the remote and rewound the segment and played it back, this time in slow-speed. He watched as Ammon slipped something into Neal's pocket.

"Boss. You see that?" Jones hit pause.

"Yeah. What was it? Rewind the clip again." Jones obliged Peter. They both watched Ammon and Neal move in slow-motion.

"I don't know. Could be a key, or thumb drive, or a folded piece of paper." Jones shrugged.

"God dammit." Peter heaved a sigh of frustration and popped the disc out. "I'm gonna load this onto my computer so I can refile the disc, and then I'm done for the night."

Jones nodded and returned to the evidence spread out on the table.

Peter consulted the evidence list and tucked the DVDs back into the correct box. He decided he'd give Neal through the weekend before confronting him about Ammon's "gift." If he kept a close watch on his tracking anklet from the house, there wasn't that much trouble Neal could get into before Monday morning. Peter still hoped that Neal would call him and tell him about it-but Peter wondered if he'd end up having another painful discussion with Neal about keeping dangerous secrets.

* * *

Neal woke up, glad it was the weekend. He wasn't sure if he was prepared to go into work and have Peter watching his every move after yesterday. He walked to the bathroom, and gingerly stepped out of his pajama pants. Neal was relieved to find that his bottom didn't smart anymore. After some finagling with the angle of the medicine cabinet mirror in the bathroom, he gave up on being able to inspect his bottom's condition. He walked into his giant closet and stood in front of the full-length mirror. He was a little surprised to see that there were no marks on his skin. Last night he was sure it would stay red for a long time. He felt his face flush at the memory. It was embarrassing, and painful, but Neal had so many conflicting emotions about the whole experience. He didn't know prior to last night that Peter cared for him like a father should care for his son-and he certainly didn't expect to feel cared-for while flipped over his lap. He was mad at himself for worrying Peter, and he even felt guilty over lying to Peter. He had zero desire to repeat the experience, but Neal had to admit that Peter taking the time to hold him, and rub his back, and even sit with him until he fell asleep was nice. He would probably never admit it out loud, but Neal wouldn't mind if Peter were to do those things again.

He sighed and headed back into the bathroom to step under the shower's spray.

Dressed in comfortable slacks and a nice button-down shirt, Neal grabbed his laptop and opened it on the kitchen table. He started his coffee machine, and decided to quickly scramble some eggs, fry some bacon, and make toast for breakfast. He placed his meal on the table and then reluctantly retrieved the thumb-drive that Ammon slipped into his suit pocket yesterday.

He opened the drive and saw three files, labeled, "Read Me First," "Proof," and "This one's for Peter." Neal felt his gut twist and he pushed the plate of food away. Hesitantly he clicked on the Read Me First word document.

Danny,

In a gilded golden cage

300 feet above the waves

Is a book that I desire.

Go where it's lit without light,

No resistance and no fight-

Of your antics I do tire.

You should know the case is thin,

I walk free-to Peter's chagrin.

Your betrayal I'd seen days prior.

To ensure that you will comply,

Please imagine with your mind's eye,

Other forgeries I have on file.

Frank

Neal's brow wrinkled in confusion-what the hell was Ammon talking about, golden cages? With a start, he realized that Ammon was blackmailing him. He'd have to solve the first paragraph of this stupid riddle. He hesitantly started to click on second file labeled "proof," even though he had an idea what was in it. When the images loaded he felt a tight knot of anxiety form in his stomach. The first was a high resolution image of the painting Neal had "sold" to Ammon. The next photo was a zoomed in, and circled, picture of the two letters Neal used to mark his forgeries. They weren't even skillfully hidden, in Neal's opinion, the large and glaring N and C didn't have to be circled with MS Paint to catch his eye. The third item in the file was another note.

"The longer you take to give me my prize, the more forged pieces with your signature will start turning up while their originals go missing. Keller and Hagen are pissed at your betrayal, and more than willing to help me add to my collection."

As Neal realized the ramifications of Ammon's threat, the knot of anxiety in his stomach felt much larger now. He could feel his pulse thumping in his ears as his blood pressure rose. Feeling dizzy, Neal stumbled across the house to grab his phone. He sent a text message to Estelle's keeper, and prayed that Mozzie would be quick to respond.


	2. In Which Mozzie Is A Help

Neal had turned to art to still the anxiety created by Ammon's blackmail threat. A brand-new canvas and several hours later left Neal feeling considerably more in control of himself. He sat perched on a stool in front of the window, backlit by the natural light filtering through the open windows.

Neal's peaceful state was interrupted by the whirring of a small remote controlled helicopter that slipped through his window and got caught in the heavy curtains. A faint cracking sound filtered through the apartment as the rotor assembly splintered. Neal set down his paint brush and walked over to the angry buzzing shambles and after a moment to inspect it, he extracted it from the cloth with a wide grin.

The broken toy helicopter powered down in his hand, and he turned it over and around until he spotted the small spy camera on the tail. He held it up to his face and spoke, "Moz! I don't see any voice communicator on this, but I'm assuming you can hear me. Come on up."

Neal set the camera down and returned to his painting. Mozzie would either come up to the apartment, or get over his fear of his phone being tapped and call like a rational adult now that his flyby inspection was complete.

Sure enough, there was a faint knock a few minutes later.

"Come in, Moz!" Neal wiped the paint off his brush and twisted in his chair to watch the door.

"I say, good sir, the weather has been dreadful in Singapore this week!"

Neal rolled his eyes. "Moz! It's unlocked!"

"The WEATHER in Singapore has been DREADFUL!" Mozzie's voice was irritated.

Neal finally stood and whipped open the door. He motioned Mozzie in with a sigh. "Park codes don't work at my door, Moz."

"You need better security. Especially with Keller still breathing." Mozzie set a small bag on the table and pulled out a bottle of wine and some computer gear.

"I'm glad Keller is gone. Next time I'm putting out a hit on him. Anyway, your note sounded like there was danger. And by the way," Mozzie motioned to the remains of his helicopter with the corkscrew, "I didn't think of putting in a voice transmitter until I saw you trying to talk to me. Good idea for a mod, whenever I repair poor Amelia."

Neal returned to his painting while his best friend rambled and poured himself a glass of wine. After a few seconds it dawned on Neal that Mozzie was silent. He was standing behind Neal, holding two glasses of wine. One he proffered to Neal while critically examining Neal's art.

"Fuseli's The Nightmare? Normally you prefer your women smiling and cheerful. Not being devoured by demons." Mozzie tilted his head and offered a critique, "Your colors are too bold. The demon should blend with the shadows. And your woman looks terrified."

"Night terrors don't leave anyone smiling, Moz." Neal took the glass and gave it a swirl and a sniff before taking a tentative sip. He gave the wine a nod of approval.

"True. What is the emergency? Unless you'd rather discuss 18th century Fruedian archetypes?" Mozzie sat down at the table and began fiddling with his helicopter.

Neal opened his laptop and slid it over to Mozzie. He read the poem quickly looked up at Neal. "Are you asking my opinion on his choice of heptameter or his prose?" Mozzie adjusted his glasses and added, "I don't think discussing the author's inability to rhyme properly is a justifiable reason to utilize a Code Chartreuse."

"File and Eye are a good example of slant rhyming, which is a perfectly acceptable-" Neal shook his head, amused at how quickly Mozzie derailed him. "He's blackmailing me."

Mozzie's tone was dry. "No shit, Sherlock. What does he have on you?"

Neal shook his head firmly in the negative. "Not important."

Mozzie shrugged. "Are you sure?"

Neal was silent for a long moment. He finally said, "He's framing me and he has a video of Peter stealing some security footage to keep me out of prison. The painting that Keller gave me on the roof was one that was forged-it looks like some work by Hagan-and the artist put my signature on it. That means the FBI has a forgery. I've been framed for the theft." Neal reached around Mozzie and opened up the the other files. Mozzie studied the picture of the forgery and then switched back to the poem.

"So what does he want us to steal for him?" Mozzie read the poem again, this time studying it for clues.

Neal ran his hand through his hair, frustrated. "I have no idea. He talked about a lot of different treasures and cons and heists when I was younger. It could be anything, really."

Mozzie peered at Neal over the top of the laptop. "Do you at least know the location he's talking about in this poem?"

Neal shook his head. "I don't know. It could be something that's 300 feet above sea level like a building, or something that is really 300 feet above the ocean like on a ship?"

"What else is 300 feet directly above the waves? A bridge?" Mozzie read through the poem one more time.

"The golden gate bridge isn't in New York." Neal paused and added, "And it's red."

"Gold is actually not a misnomer, Neal, because the straight was originally called Chrysopylae-or the Golden Gate, by the army engineer who mapped it. It reminded him of a harbor in Istanbul named Chrysoceras, which means Golden Horn." Mozzie finished his lecturing took a sip of his wine. He was thoughtful for a moment and asked, "Well, what else is gold in New York?"

"The Life Building, I think. The one that that has the golden pyramid on top. But it's way too tall."

They were both silent for a long moment, during which Mozzie poured himself another glass of wine. "Did he give you a time limit?"

"No. But I'm not really wanting to test his generosity, though. I helped Peter arrest him, after all. And I suspect the FBI will have the case files processed by Monday or Tuesday, which means they'll try to return to painting to the museum by Wednesday." Neal was quiet for a moment. I suppose I should start recreating a better forgery; I doubt he'll be returning the originals even if we find this mysterious treasure. I can sneak into Evidence and switch out their forgery with mine."

Mozzie shot Neal a dirty look, and headed over to Neal's bookshelf. He spoke offhandedly, over his shoulder to Neal, "Well, put away your copy of The Nightmareand get started." He retrieved a stack of books about New York-tourist guides and architectural studies. He began thumbing through them, aimlessly. Mozzie suddenly let out a small shriek of victory. "A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame is imprisoned lightning!"

"What?" Neal reached across the table for the book. "Lady Liberty?"

"It fits! Her torch is gold, she's about 300 feet tall, and-"

"-out of my two mile radius." Neal's voice was dejected.

Mozzie was quiet while he thought of a way to cheer his friend. "I could hack your anklet again," he offered, hopefully.

Neal shook his head. Given the events of last night, he didn't want to imagine Peter's response to finding out Neal was off anklet without authorization. "I don't know how he knew, but he knew, last time, Moz."

"Impossible. It was perfect." Mozzie sniffed disdainfully.

Neal smiled at his friend's wounded pride. "He changed my anklet immediately afterward. He had to have known." Neal insisted.

"To quote James Whistler, 'I am not arguing with you, I am telling you.' He had no evidence." Mozzie crossed his arms and leveled a look at Neal that dared him to argue further.

Neal refused to take the bait, and asked instead, "Any other suggestions?"

"Yes, actually." Mozzie reached for his broken toy helicopter. "How about we go to the edge of your radius, and I'll go up with my camera and transmit the feed back to you?"

Neal had been prepared to argue with Mozzie, given his history of extravagant plans. He opened his mouth to tell Mozzie that they weren't going to attack this problem with a solution that was the equivalent of a nuclear missile-but he shut it to process what Mozzie had offered.

"It's actually a good idea, Mozzie. Especially if you wear an electrician or janitorial costume." Neal nodded, impressed with the simplicity of his friend's plan.

Mozzie smiled, and sipped on his wine with satisfaction.

"How far can your things transmit? It's like 15 miles to Ellis Island from here. I can't even make it to the Hudson Park Pier."

"However far you want," Mozzie shrugged. "I can configure them to work over a cell phone, instead of radio transmission. I'll get my stuff together and we'll go Monday after work?"

"I was thinking tonight."

"Seriously?" Mozzie looked at Neal askance. "What's the rush?"

"Peter." Neal answered as truthfully as he could. "Peter can't know about it. I wanted to have it wrapped up by Monday so he won't have an excuse to ask me anything."

Mozzie sighed. "Okay. I'll meet you back here in two hours."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

I love you guys! Thank you for all the positive feedback :) I logged in to update and had all these reviews and marked-as-favorite/following and that caught me off guard. I'm barely a chapter into my story and y'all are giving me lots of love.

kiss, kiss!


	3. In Which El Encourages Peter

**Author's Note: **Sorry this is a longish A/N.

Okay, argh, I've never gotten a negative review in regards to the spanking aspect (although plenty about my writing itself, and I appreciate those because they make my writing better) and I always wondered why most other spanking fics have those huge warnings at the top...you know what I'm talking about, these:

_This story contains the spanking of an adult. If you don't like it, stop reading it right now. I put the warning in the summary, so why are you still reading if you have a problem with it? If you're going to read it, and know you don't like this sort of story, then don't leave a review telling me my story is stupid! I already know spanking isn't everyone's cup of tea, that's **why I put the warnings there.** _

Well, now I know why other authors do that.

My own personal opinions on spanking aside, I want to clear this up right now. There is a huge community of spankos, both as fetishists and as those who engage in spanking as a discipline arrangement. They're perfectly healthy, sane, adult people. If you think I'm full of nonsense, check out (especially the forum section): spankingneeds dot com, because they go into depth on why someone would want to be spanked as an adult, more than I'm willing to do in this author's note here. (I had to write it that way so that fanfiction wouldn't delete it as spam.) Anyway, my point being, yes, I know, in the TV show Peter doesn't spank Neal. Would he in real life? Probably not. But adult spanking is a real thing, people. And not just as a BDSM thing either. And if you know anything about the community Neal and Peter's personalities lend themselves perfectly to this type of relationship.

This is fan fiction, people, anything goes. If you don't like it, go find another story to read. That's what I do. I mean, I don't enjoy stories that focus on Omorashi...so I don't read them (unless I've been asked to beta). If you're going to criticize my spelling or writing style, please-I welcome that. I write here because I'm exercising my writing muscles. If you know you don't like spanking though, c'mon. Just. Don't. Read. It.

Okay, sorry for the rant. We now continue with our regularly scheduled story:

* * *

Peter had just returned from a nice long jog with Satchmo. El had to be at an afternoon catering event, so he was looking forward to an intimate lunch with his wife. He filled up Satchmo's water bowl, but the labrador was too tired to move. Panting, he sprawled out on the tile in front of the fridge and gave Peter a disapproving look.

"I know, bud. It's hot out there." Peter stripped off his shirt and walked up the stairs. "Hon! I'm home!" He opened the door to the master bedroom.

He heard El call out from her small guest bedroom-turned-office, "I know! I can smell you! Get showered and I'll make lunch." He smiled when he saw his wife peer through the door. "What do you want to eat?"

Peter pulled off his sweaty shorts and walked over to kiss his wife. "You."

"Shower first, hon." El tapped his chest with a smile, and then shut the door in his face.

"Hey!" Peter tugged open the door to his wife's quiet laughter. "Hey! I'm serious!"

"Me too!" El called over her shoulder as she headed down the stairs. "I'm making grilled ham-and-cheese and tomato soup. Sound good?"

"You sound better!" Peter stripped off the rest of his sweaty clothes and headed for the shower.

After a quick shower, Peter helped his wife prepare a small salad while she worked the griddle. They sat down together on the back porch and watched Satchmo sniff through the bushes and walk along the fence.

"Peter, did you want to talk about how your conversation went with Neal?" El had tried not to pry, but she was concerned for Neal-and her husband. He'd been emotionally distant since he returned the night before.

"Not much to say, El. We talked. I laid out some ground rules. He asked me to hold him accountable." Peter shifted in his chair, and dunked his grilled cheese into the soup before taking a bite.

"Did you?" Elizabeth's touch on her husband's wrist was feather-light.

Peter nodded. "Yeah."

El fiddled with her spoon, debating pressing her husband for further details. He finally offered, "It was really emotional for him, El. He was so skittish afterward. I think he really felt how disappointed I was in him. How much he hurt me. Not because of the spanking. But I mean..." Peter's voice trailed off as he tried to find the right words.

Elizabeth supplied them for her husband, "I understand. He didn't realize that he had failed you prior to that. It's a little unsettling to have your wrongs discussed so forcefully." She hesitated for a moment, and then asked, "Did you comfort him? Or did you leave him with all those worries?"

Peter gave his wife a look that clearly conveyed that he was offended with her lack of faith in him. "Of course. He cried himself out. I stayed until he fell asleep."

"Oh, poor Neal!" El pressed a napkin to her lips. "I hope you weren't too hard on him."

Peter sighed. "I wasn't. It's going to take some time to adjust to this, but I think it's gonna work out alright." His phone beeped. He pulled it out of his pocket and looked at the message from Diana.

_"Boss, prosecutor says our case on Ammon won't hold up. Jones and I are at the office. We got it, just keeping you informed."_

Elizabeth finished her salad. "I need to get ready for this event. I'm assuming that's work?"

Peter placed his phone on the armrest. He grinned at his wife, and answered her with, "Yeah, but I have time for a quickie."

* * *

Diana spotted her boss before Jones. She grabbed the hard copy of the email from the Saint Louis Police Department stating they were releasing Frank Ammon and clearing him of all charges. "Grab the document Judge Harrison sent over this morning," she said over her shoulder as she intercepted Peter.

"Boss. Ammon's lawyer is claiming that the paintings are forgeries. They have been verified by four different agencies as forgeries." Diana followed Peter up the stairs.

Peter flipped through the papers Diana handed him in disbelief. Jones silently handed him the paperwork indicating all charges were dropped.

Peter sank into a chair in disbelief. "He's totally free to go?"

"Yeah. And we can't find the original Matisse paintings. Understandably, the museum is pissed."

Peter rolled his eyes. Diana continued, "The curator wants to come by Monday morning first thing to review the footage."

Jones injected, "We're reviewing that now, boss, but there's nothing. The only time the paintings were out of our surveillance..." Jones' voice trailed off, knowing he'd upset Peter if he continued his train of thought.

"Neal didn't steal those paintings, and he didn't help Keller or Ammon do it, either." Peter's tone brooked no argument, no discussion. Jones and Diana exchanged worried glances. They didn't really think Neal stole the paintings either, but everyone else who reviewed the footage was going to come to the same conclusion.

"Are we sure they're forgeries?" Peter tossed the papers onto the desk.

Jones sighed and grabbed the remote from the desk. "You're not going to like this, boss. Check it out." He opened up the file the prosecutor had emailed their office. A large image of Portrait of a Sailor by Matisse filled the screen. After a few clicks, Jones managed to zoom in on the floppy hat. It only took Peter a few seconds to locate the small "NC" in the swirled paint.

"Damn." Peter stood up, and paced through the tiny conference room. "That's not Neal's work."

Jones looked at Diana with raised eyebrows. They both watched their boss with worried expressions.

"We'll talk to him Monday, before the curator gets here. Let's focus on tracking the money trail. Also, I want to review the files on Ammon and Keller."

Diana reached for a large box and rifled through it. "I think everything Saint Louis PD sent over on Ammon is here. Are you sure you don't want to call him in and just ask him, boss?"

"I'm giving him the weekend, Diana."

"Boss, even if he's being framed, we have to address it so we can rule it out. If we don't, our whole arrest and sting and everything will be ruled inadmissible."

Jones shook his head at Diana, trying to get her to just drop it. Jones recognized that even if Caffrey was their best lead, they had several days worth of work ahead of them, just sifting through all the documents, video footage, and eye-witness statements. He sighed and picked up banking statements he had been sifting through prior to Peter's arrival.

"What do you have on Keller?" Peter ignored Diana's worries. He was going to talk to Neal anyway. He grabbed another box and started rifling through it. "Can we get Keller back in here for questioning?"

Finally able to give his boss some good news, Jones cracked his first smile of the day. "We have him on video removing the paintings, eyewitness testimony, and Diana's statement. He lawyered up, so I don't know how well questioning him again will go. According to the prosecution we've got him solid on theft, attempted murder, carrying concealed without a license, and larceny. And conspiracy." Jones retrieved a folder from the prosecutor's office and handed it to Peter. He added, a little reluctantly, "Of course, since no one can find the original paintings, it does weaken the case, somewhat."

"Has anyone offered him a plea bargain to see if we can get him to implicate Ammon?"

Jones paused and then answered, "I don't think so, no. Would you like me to get the attorney on the line?"

"Not yet. Let's see what we can get on Ammon ourselves. I want that scum behind bars."

The three agents slowly became consumed by the sheer amount of work in front of them, losing track of time. It wasn't until Elizabeth called that any of them realized it was after six in the evening. Peter assured El he'd leave the office "right now!" so that he would be home in time for dinner. With a yawn he dismissed his agents and told them he'd see them tomorrow morning, bright and early. Jones offered to bring donuts, and Diana said she'd bring coffee. Peter smiled and added, "I'll order pizza for lunch, then."

* * *

**Author's Note Number Two!**

Just wanted to thank you again, my dear readers. Sorry for the rant-I've gotten enough excited reviews in the vein of "yay! Another White Collar *spanking* story!" and you guys are my intended audience-since clearly you enjoy what I'm writing :) You are the best. Thanks for the positive feedback and I'll try to control my ranting from here on, since I'm writing for you (and you certainly don't deserve to be fussed at!)


	4. In Which Neal and Moz Discover A Prize

As they walked down the sidewalk, Mozzie launched into a small discourse on how Neal was to best utilize his technology. He adjusted the Utility and Power Company jumpsuit, and swung the hard hat and reflective vest in his free hand as he kept up a brisk pace. After he finished his instructions, which Neal thought were completely unnecessary, Mozzie asked, "What exactly am I looking for, again?"

"I don't know, Moz." Neal sighed and kicked a small pebble in his path. "A treasure, I guess."

"Well, it's no big deal, we'll figure it out. You can probably head back to your apartment, if you want to be comfortable." Mozzie hailed a cab and directed the driver down a few side roads and stopped just shy of Neal's radius. As Neal stepped out of the cab, the anklet blinked yellow, and gave a warning beep. Neal knew he had exactly 1/10th of a mile before the alarm would sound at the FBI. Neal glanced around-it was an empty parking lot in the industrial area along the water front. It was going to be a long wait, but Neal decided he could make himself comfortable at the deserted location while Mozzie completed his reconnaissance mission.

Moz reached for the backpack Neal was wearing. He did a quick inventory and handed Neal an earpiece and adjusted the small pocket-sized video camera. "Check your phone, Neal. You should be able to access a live feed when I turn on my camera, and you should be able to hear me, too."

"Yeah, I can hear you fine, and I'm getting a close up of your nose hairs." Neal smirked at his best friend.

Moz zoomed out to capture his whole face, and gave Neal a dirty look through the lens. Neal laughed, and Mozzie turned off the camera and tucked it back into the backpack. "I'll call when I get to the island. I had to cash in some favors to get a ride over there, you know. You owe me for this."

"I owe you for a lot more than this, Moz." Neal leaned his forearms against the cement wall and stared at the water, inky black in the moonlight. The skyline reflected colors brightly across the bay.

Mozzie spoke, a thoughtful tone to his voice, "You can probably head home if you want to be comfortable."

"I'm gonna wait for you here." They stared out at the bay. After a few moments he caught some movement in the water as a small boat edged closer.

"Okay. It should take me a half hour to get to the Statue of Liberty, and another fifteen-twenty minutes to get to the torch. I gotta get down to that small dock there." Mozzie pointed at a collection of rotting boards and turned to Neal "You don't have to wait."

"I'll be fine, Moz. I brought a book." Neal sat down on the cement ledge, and gave the short balding man a little wave. "Don't get caught!"

"Never." Mozzie pushed his glasses up on his nose, and walked down to meet the small boat.

It was well over an hour before his phone beeped. Neal fished his phone out of his pocket and read the text from Mozzie.

"I'm in." Before Neal could reply the screen went black. He quickly fished the small ear-bud out of his pocket and put it in his ear. After a moment he was able to make out the details-Mozzie was using a red-filter flashlight, and slowly moving the camera and light in an organized grid pattern around the dome of the torch.

"Neal, you hear me?" Mozzie's voice was tinny in his ear.

"Yeah. You hear me?" Neal spoke into the microphone clipped to his collar.

"Yes. Neal, there doesn't appear to be anything in here. No marks on the walls or ceilings." Mozzie turned around, slowly, panning across the whole dome.

"Did you check the ground?" Neal stared as his small screen, hoping for some clue. The Statue of Liberty was the only thing that fit all the clues in the stupid poem Ammon had written.

The camera paused. "Damn. No." Mozzie positioned himself in the corner and began walking around, camera trained on the huge, dirty tiles.

"Moz, look for scratches. I can't tell through the video feed. One of the tiles might be loose." Neal tried to keep the impatience out of his voice. For probably the hundredth time today, Neal wished he didn't have that stupid anklet tethering him to the FBI.

"Hey! Do you hear that?" Mozzie's voice was excited as he tapped his foot on the ground. "I think this one is loose! Just a second, I gotta grab a knife or pry bar out of the backpack." Mozzie set the camera down, his hurried footsteps echoing weirdly through the earpiece.

After a few minutes, Mozzie managed to dislodge the tile. "It's some old book, Neal. A ledger or diary or-oh, fuck." Mozzie drew in a sharp breath and went completely silent as he flipped through the pages.

Neal bit his tongue, trying not to respond too sharply to Mozzie's sudden silence. He couldn't take it anymore and finally exclaimed, "What! What, Moz, what is it?!"

Mozzie carefully set the book down, and lifted up the camera. "Can you see it, Neal?"

"Something-something of Jimmy Burke?" Neal was confused. "What am I looking at, Moz?"

"The diary of Jimmy Burke!" Mozzie tried to zoom in on the spidery handwriting, but Neal still couldn't make it out clearly.

"Am I supposed to know who he is? A relative of Peter's?" Neal started pacing around the parking lot.

"No, Jimmy Burke! Of the Lucchese Family!" Mozzie held the camera up to his face in disbelief. "You seriously don't know who he is? He pulled off the Lufthansa heist? Does that ring any bells?"

Before Neal could say anything, a police car with sirens blaring and lights flashing pulled into the parking lot. "Um, Moz? Why are the police here?"

"What? Fuck! I'm on my way back now. I'll see you at your place? I'm not gonna meet you there with this book if the police are with you." Mozzie disconnected the video transmission and Neal heard a small pop as he clicked off audio, too. Neal slid his phone in his pocket and watched the two officers approach him.

One was huge, the size of a pro wrestler. The other was a small girl, who looked like the sheer amount of tactical gear she had hanging from her police-issue belt would cause her to tip over given the slightest breeze. They both approached him cautiously, hands hovering over their service pistols.

"Sir! May we have a word?" The girl spoke with authority that belied her size.

"Yes ma'am." Neal set his book down and jumped off the ledge. When he realized that made the two officers jump, he froze and moved his hands away from his body so they could clearly see he wasn't holding anything that could be used as a weapon.

"Can we please have your name, sir?"

"I'm Neal Caffrey." At his words the small agent unholstered her weapon and trained it on him.

She exclaimed to her partner, "That's him. That's the one on the BOLO!"

* * *

**Author's Note: **Aww, you guys make me so happy. Thanks for the happy feedback after my unhappy rant. Those meanies! haha. Anyway, so, confession bear time...

When I was trying to stir up the plot bunnies, I did a google search for "Missing American Treasures" and this Jimmy Burke character was one of the top results. I honed in on the name, because, duh, Burke...

Well, I didn't know that there have been several movies about him, until I had already been like "Boom, I'm gonna use the Lufthansa Heist, whatever that is, in my story!" I did some wikipedia-ing and then...ah, after I had fallen in love with the idea of using the missing money in the story I discovered there have already been a huge, American Classic Movie about the Lufthansa Heist. I guess I grew up under a rock, because the movie was a big hit in my youth.

So, yeah, sorry if any of ya'll are like "whatever, this is the dumbest plot idea ever," but I'm running with it. Haha. If you haven't seen the movie, or aren't connecting the dots yet, I'm not gonna spoil it...you just keep thinking I'm a mad creative genius, okay?

Thanks! kiss kiss!

P.S. Sorry that I'm not sorry for the cliffhanger.


	5. In Which Neal Gets A Scare

**Author's Note: **Enjoy some Neal!Whump, and don't be too mad at Peter...

* * *

"Look, officer, there must be some confusion here. I'm a confidential informant to the FBI. See?" Neal lifted his pant leg to show the policemen his tracking anklet. "My handler is Special Agent in Charge Peter Burke. Please call him." He smiled his brightest and turned on the charm.

Neal glanced between the two officers nervously. He had no idea why they had cornered him. The burly one spoke into his radio in a low rumble, and Dispatch squawked back that they would call the FBI office and track down Peter. Neal felt himself relax when he heard the exchange. The pretty female officer, however, spoke and effectively vanished any calm Neal was feeling. "While we wait, sir, we still need to search your person and I'm also going to place you in the back of our squad car."

"What?" Neal backed up until his back hit the cement barrier. "You mean like arrest?"

"Sir! Please put your hands on the barrier behind you, and spread your legs. Do not make any sudden movements!" Neal felt his stomach drop. In a daze, he slowly turned and complied with the officers. In a few seconds they had extricated his ear piece and phone. Fortunately Mozzie had shut his video off and the cops couldn't see that he had broken into the Statue of Liberty's torch.

The large cop wrenched Neal's arm back and slid the cuffs on before Neal could process what was happening. "Sir, you are being placed in custody until your FBI contact arrives. If he does not vouch for you, you will be under arrest. Sit down." The burly cop tucked Neal into the backseat of the squad car. Neal shifted so the cuffs weren't biting into his wrists. He thought about picking them but decided to wait on Peter. No need to anger the police since they had seemingly swooped down and cuffed him with no provocation. Time seemed to stop while the world around Neal swirled and distorted as everything appeared to move in slow-motion. He felt like he was sitting in a giant fishbowl, as if sounds were muted and images distorted through water and thick glass.

Peter pulled up next to the whirling lights and stepped out of his car. He shut his door with entirely more force than necessary. The slamming door caused Neal to jump. As soon as Neal realized it was Peter, he felt a combination of relief and panic. He felt panic twist in his gut as he worried that Peter might be angry or disappointed with him. Peter rapped his knuckles on the window. "Hey, you okay?" He looked in at Neal, and was upset to see his CI was staring back with a wide eyes and a scared expression. "Hang on, Neal." Peter went to speak with the two policemen and Neal strained to hear their conversation.

"Look, agent-"

"Special Agent." Peter corrected the burly man gruffly.

"Special Agent. Look, we got a phone call about a suspicious individual attempting to flee custody. Your boy there fit the BOLO description-right down to his name, tracking anklet and working for you Feebies."

Neal couldn't hear Peter's reply, but it was short. Neal leaned against the door, hoping that by pressing his ear against the window he'd be able to eavesdrop.

The officer's voice was clipped as he spoke to Peter. "I'm just doing my job, Special Agent. This was a courtesy call to you. He's been Mirandarized, we can take him in and book him!"

Peter said something, again too low for Neal to make out clearly. It sounded like "No, I'll take him in and the FBI will handle it." Neal suddenly felt sick. What the hell had happened to get a BOLO put out on him? The car door suddenly popped open and he felt himself start to tumble out toward the pavement. Having his arms cuffed behind him made his balance feel off. He jerked back reflexively, but Peter caught him by the upper arm. He helped him out of the police car and guided him toward his car. Peter opened the back door and gently helped Neal slide in-holding the back of his head so he didn't crack it on the doorframe.

Neal started to ask Peter what was going on but was immediately cut off by Peter admonishing him, "Shh. Be still while I sort this out." Peter squeezed Neal's shoulder once, in what he hoped was a reassuring manner, then shut the door and headed back to the officers. Neal watched them exchange paperwork. He knew paperwork meant that something serious had happened. Neal shifted and debated popping out of the cuffs. He doubted Peter would mind. But, Neal realized with a start, Peter had put him in the back of his car. Like he was still under arrest. Neal felt another wave of panic wash over him, so he closed his eyes and shifted around until he felt as comfortable as possible with the cuffs pressing into his lower back and wrists. He pressed his temple against the cool glass of the window and tried to take deep breaths to stay calm.

He barely registered that Peter had gotten in the car and was driving away, until he cursed the "goddamn donut patrol!"

Neal closed his eyes and waited for Peter to start yelling or scolding, or threatening. His eyes popped open in shock when Peter asked "Neal, are you okay?" Peter was focused on the traffic but he kept glancing in the review mirror at Neal.

"I'm okay." Neal didn't trust himself to speak above a whisper. He watched Peter pop his portable dome light out of the glove compartment, turn it on, stick it on the dash, and pull the car onto the shoulder. He flicked his emergency flashers and then stepped out of the car. Neal's gaze followed Peter and this time he wasn't caught by surprise when the door he was leaning on opened. He felt himself cringe away from Peter, involuntarily. Neal has no context for the events of the past hour, and he could only assume Peter knew he had orchestrated a break-in attempt with Mozzie. Even though "getting arrested" wasn't a ground rule that Peter had delineated, he was positive he was going to get spanked for this. He wondered if Peter intended to spank him here on the side of the road. Neal swallowed nervously and waited for Peter to speak.

Peter ducked down to look at Neal. "Do you really want to finish the ride in the back? I mean it'll keep your hands off my radio dial for once..." Peter's joking tone died off when he realized Neal was still wearing the handcuffs. "Kid, why are you still wearing those?" Peter's voice was confused with a hint of annoyance.

Neal gave a small shrug. His voice came out in a whisper. "You said to be still."

Peter's eyebrows wrinkled in confusion and then darted up when he processed what Neal was really saying.

"Oh, no, no, Neal!" Peter ducked into the car and pulled Neal close. "I thought you'd pick them! You never need help getting out of cuffs. I thought...I thought you wouldn't wait on me. I'm sorry, Neal. I didn't mean to make you think you were still arrested!" Peter hurriedly rifled through his pockets for a spare handcuff key. "I just didn't want you antagonizing the cops while I was trying to sort things out," he finished lamely.

"You told them you were taking me into custody." Neal's voice wavered, the earlier panic receding. Peter reached around Neal in a partial hug, his guilt amplified when he felt Neal's slight frame shaking. Neal tucked his face against Peter's neck while Peter awkwardly fumbled with the cuffs. After a few seconds Peter had them off and pulled Neal out of the car and into a tight hug. He ignored the small damp spot on his collar, and the moisture on Neal's cheeks.

Peter placed a hand on each of Neal's shoulders and held him at arms length. He waited until Neal made eye contact, and then Peter said, firmly, "You are in my custody, Neal. You were in my custody before they arrested you, and last week, and tomorrow, until that damned anklet comes off, you're in my custody, okay?"

Neal nodded, subdued, and climbed into the front seat. He hurriedly changed the dial while Peter shut his door and headed around the car to the driver's side side. He knew he'd only get a few minutes of music before Peter turned it back to the sports stationed he enjoyed, but at this point it was more about the familiarity of being in the front seat next to Peter. Neal's phone beeped, and he fished it out of the center console where Peter had stashed everything the police had taken off Neal's person. Expecting an update from Mozzie, Neal was blind-sighted by what he read. The messaged glowing on the screen caused Neal's blood to run cold.

_"Dannyboy, next time, the police won't have instructions to call your handler. You have 48 hours."_

In an instant, he realized the near-arrest had simply been Ammon toying with him. Neal felt his fear spike. With shaking hands, he quickly shut his phone off and put it back in the cup holder where Peter had placed it-and just in the nick of time. Peter opened the car door and slid into his seat right. Neal breathed a sigh of relief that he hadn't noticed Neal fiddling with the phone. Neal made himself relax his hands and breathe normally. He stared quietly out of the window and waited for Peter to talk.

However, the entire car ride, short as it was, Peter was quiet, mulling over the interaction with the NYPD. The two police officers claimed that the BOLO report had been sent from the FBI office. Peter knew that his office hadn't sent the report. The officers added, further, that the report claimed Neal had forged several masterpieces, had stolen some valuable artwork, and was possibly dangerous. This information, coupled with the "NC" in the forged Matisse paintings that Keller had "sold" to Neal during the earlier sting operation, made Peter positive someone was trying to set Neal up-probably to get his parole cancelled. Peter was also sure Neal was keeping something from him. If Neal's terrified expression when Peter found him in the back of the police car wasn't enough to tip off Peter's gut, the fact he was sitting in a secluded parking lot in the middle of the night with voice transmission equipment was a dead giveaway that he was up to something. Neal's continued silence didn't help ease Peter's worries either. Peter wondered how much he knew about this BOLO and the forged art.

Peter stifled a yawn and debated changing the station from the ridiculous music station Neal had chosen. He glanced at the passenger seat, and felt a surge of worry over his young charge. That expression on Neal's face when Peter had pulled over to retrieve him from the backseat had really shaken the FBI agent. Peter almost asked Neal what he was keeping bottled up inside. It was late, he was exhausted from work, and really didn't want to get on another emotional roller coaster with Neal just yet. The fact that he was so shook up by the near-arrest was probably an indicator that Peter should insist that they talk, but he had told Diana and Jones that he'd give Neal the weekend. He intended to do that-Neal had already had some major restrictions placed on him and Peter felt some distance and time to process everything was important for Neal.

Finally in front of June's, Peter put the car in park and turned to Neal. He clasped his hand on Neal's shoulder and said, "Hey, kid, I've got some stuff I need to talk to you about. It's the case with Ammon."

Neal's eyes widened, so Peter hastily amended, "You're not in trouble."

"What's it about?" Neal asked cautiously.

"Just some papers and videos the DA sent our office. I need to get your input." Peter fiddled with the radio dial, muting the noise and adjusting it back to his sports talk station.

"Now?" Neal was afraid Mozzie might be waiting for him, and wanted to avoid letting Peter into his loft if his best friend was there waiting.

"No. I'm tired. The staties woke me up to come get you. It's after one in the morning, Neal! I just need to talk to you before work on Monday." Peter scratched at his ear, deep in thought. He added, "I can either stop by early Monday, or Sunday evening."

"Sunday night, I guess-we could order a pizza?" Neal bit the inside of his lip, and then decided to show a little vulnerability with Peter in the only way he knew how-jokingly. He smiled widely and said in a teasing tone, "C'mon, Dad, you can tuck me in again."

Even though Neal had given his famous conman smirk and smile, Peter saw through his light banter. He thought of Neal's axiom, "The best lies have a bit of truth in them." Peter smiled back and said with mock seriousness, "Dinner and a bedtime story-it's a deal."

Neal unbuckled his seat belt and gathered his phone, wallet, earpiece, and lock picking set the police had confiscated when they emptied his pockets. He paused, and with just a hint of awkwardness, he told Peter, "Hey, um, thanks for coming to get me. I'm sorry they woke you up..."

Peter nodded his head and gave his CI a small smile. Neal moved to open the car door, but Peter caught his elbow.

"Neal."

"Yes?" Neal sat back in his seat.

"Stay out of trouble." Peter said, firmly. He smiled to soften his words.

Neal rolled his eyes. "Of course, Peter!"

"Oh, and Neal?"

"Yes?"

"You, I don't mind a midnight call to bail my son out of jail, as long as you're okay."

"I wasn't technically 'in jail,' you know..." Neal protested weakly.

"Go to bed, Neal." Peter rolled his eyes.

"'kay. Night." Neal stepped out of the car, and bent slightly at the waist to make eye contact with Peter. "Thanks," he said again. He added under his breath, as he turned away from the car, "thanks, Dad."


	6. In Which Neal Learns Of A Famous Crime

Neal opened the door to his loft; he glanced around looking for some sign that Mozzie had some how beaten him home. When he realized his house was empty and his wine collection unmolested, Neal fished his phone out of his pocket and dialed his friend's burner phone.

"Oh, thank god, you aren't calling from prison!" Mozzie's voice was muffled over rumbling in the background.

"No, it was a misunderstanding. I'll tell you about it when you get here. Where are you? What's that noise? I can barely hear you." Neal slipped off his shoes.

"I'm on a boat!" Mozzie yelled. "I can't hear you! What'd you say?"

"Nevermind! I'll tell you when you get here!" Neal raised his voice to match Mozzie's.

"I can't hear you! You can tell me when I get there!"

Neal could barely make out his friend's voice with the whistling wind and other noises in the background. He rolled his eyes and hung up before texting, "I'm home, I'll tell you about the police when you get here. Stop for some wine, you drank the last of my Syrah."

He turned on the small lamp near his couch and flicked off the overhead lights. He sprawled out on his bed, and as his eyelids grew heavy his last conscious thought was "I'll just take a short nap before Moz gets here."

* * *

The next morning, Neal woke up to the sound of hammering and sawing. He grabbed a pillow and pulled it over his head, but was unable to muffle the sound. Finally recognizing defeat he rolled out of bed. He shuffled to the kitchen and gave Mozzie a small nod before plopping down in a chair. He surveyed the mess his bald friend had assembled over his dining table and glared when Mozzie picked up the hammer and a handful of nails.

"No, Moz. Shut up." Neal reached for the hammer.

Mozzie pulled it out of Neal's grasp, and admonished, "I brought you coffee, it's on the counter. And a bagel." Mozzie motioned behind him with a flourish. "Eat breakfast while you wake up, and let me finish. This is important."

Mozzie turned to his elaborate creation and hammered a small wooden slat to the surprisingly detailed structure with a resounding tap-tap-bang! Neal rubbed his eyes and fetched his coffee with a disgruntled sigh.

He took his coffee back to his bedroom and stripped off his clothes from last night. He pulled on a very nice pair of khaki pants and a tan collared shirt that he thought complimented his dark hair nicely. He took a sip of the coffee and made his way back to the ruckus in his kitchen. He leaned his hip against the table and watched his friend work.

After a moment, Neal spoke. "Alright. Explain this...whatever this is..." Neal motioned to table with his coffee.

"This is a three-dimensional layout for the Lufthansa heist. See, what we have here, this is the airport. Give me your coffee." Mozzie snatched the mug from Neal and gently set it down next to a small ramp.

"Wait, give me my coffee and you tell me about this heist. I haven't even heard of the Lufthansa Heist."

"Oh, young grasshopper! I have failed you! The Lufthansa Heist is the largest cash theft on American soil! Jewelry, worth over $3 million today, and a goodly amount of cash, roughly 5 million, were stolen from the airline Lufthansa! Jimmy 'the Gent' Burke, the man who wrote this beautiful diary I broke into Lady Liberty to retrieve, he was a member of the Lucchese crime family." Mozzie looked at Neal curiously. "You sure you never heard of this?" Mozzie adjusted his glasses and looked at his friend.

"Nope." Neal retrieved his coffee mug, and said wryly, "So, no relation to Peter Burke."

"I'm sure if there were any relation, Peter would disavow him. Working with us criminals is one thing, but I doubt The Suit wants a family member with a record." Oblivious to the hurt look that passed over Neal's face, Mozzie picked up another two-by-two and a ruler. After a moment to measure and mark, he pressed it firmly to the table and began sawing a small piece off the end that hung off the edge. "Anyway, so an employee of Lufthansa owed some gambling money to the Lucchese family. A few years earlier he'd stolen a paltry amount from Lufthansa and was never caught. He figured the easiest way to get out of debt would be to offer a larger prize-his secret to a successful heist."

Mozzie studied his architectural design, holding up the small slat of wood. He nodded in approval and moved to cut another piece of wood. "He explained his first heist to Jimmy Burke, who tweaked it a little-made an allowance for if the police were notified, and a better get-away plan-and then he went straight to Paul Vario, one of the head honchos in the Lucchese mafia. They got another mafia family involved, the Gambinos. They had a deadly Sicilian shooter that they assigned to the team, so you know these guys weren't playing for lunch-money."

After measuring and cutting a third piece, Mozzie retrieved his hammer and nails. "Well, they stole the money, knocked an airport guard unconscious, stole his keys and access ID, stole the untraceable cash-the numbers weren't sequential or recorded-and high-tailed it. The guy driving the get-away van dropped them and the cash off, but instead of taking the van to the junk yard, he got high and the police caught him."

Neal finished his coffee and, caught up in the story, decided to sit down at the table. "Did they ever catch the rest of the guys?"

"Not a single one-just their bodies. The FBI figured that Jimmy Burke had to be involved and they set up heavy surveillance. Once he realized how close he was to being arrested by the suits, he swore he was going to kill the guy driving the get-away van, and anyone else who could implicate him in the crime. I think because he was only expecting to pull in about ¼ of what they really got, so the extra money, and extra attention from the suits really made him paranoid." Mozzie set the hammer down, and gave his creation a firm once-over. Pleased with his results, he sat in the chair across from Neal.

Mozzie leaned in conspiratorially, elbows on the table and hands clasped in front of him. He continued his narrative. "One of the guys questioned by the suits was found in pieces floating in the river. Others were found shot, and one body was found, burned, in a parking lot. Jimmy Burke mowed down everyone involved, Vario, the Gaminos, the Sicilian, everyone except for his son, Frankie-Jim Burke, and his protegé. Turns out, he got caught for murder and died in jail later. His son got shot over a drug deal, and his protegé also turned up dead. Far as we know, Jimmy was the only one who survived, but according to the FBI's dossier on him, he never did anything remotely connected to spending the money or fencing jewelry before being arrested. In jail, he refused to talk about it, even when they offered him a deal."

Mozzie leaned back in his chair and said with grave authority, "According to Jimmy's diary here, he didn't trust his son very much. The way he talks about him, he thinks he's incompetent. He was trying to teach him the ropes, but he was a bumbling idiot. It's true cause he got shot by his drug dealer. According to this-" Mozzie thumped the leather-bound journal for emphasis "-Jimmy hid the cash and the jewels, and planned on retrieving it after he got out of jail."

Neal let out a low whistle. "Eight mil for the taking?"

"Yeah." Mozzie smiled. "So let me use your coffee mug, and I'll show you the route Jimmy took when he hid the cash." Mozzie took the now empty cup from Neal and placed it in the middle of the "road" he had made.

"This building here was his adoptive parents' home. Legend says he buried everything here, but the Suits and others have torn it apart. His parents came up clean on the background checks, and you best believe the Suits have a dossier on them, too-no unusual cash flow. They don't have the money." Mozzie moved the coffee mug down the "street" and pointed out different "buildings" he had constructed out of the wood. Neal's mind drifted as Mozzie recreated Jimmy's 8 million dollar route. He tried to suppress annoyance at the miniature construction on his table and sawdust all over his house. He wondered if he could get Mozzie to take it to one of his safe houses, or if his friend would be offended at such a suggestion. Either way, he had to get it out of the house and give the stupid journal to Frank Ammon before Peter came over to chat. 8 million dollars in untraceable currency was a fantastic fantasy. But Neal knew he had to tell Peter, and that he'd forbid him from going after the money. After his near-arrest last night, he knew he needed to tell Peter what was going on with Ammon. Neal felt a small bead of tension form between his eyes and he pressed his thumb against his forehead.

Mozzie was still rambling on about the heist and his detailed treasure-recovery plan. "You see, Jimmy was a brick layer! It's totally obvious. He probably helped build these buildings here-"

Unable to take anymore of Mozzie's enthusiasm, Neal finally interrupted him. "Moz. This isn't going to work."

"Why not?"

"Well, for one, Queens is outside of my radius. For two, I have to give the diary to Frank-like, tomorrow. For three, I have to make a copy of it for Peter."

"Oh, no you don't." Mozzie glared at Neal. "Eight MILLION dollars, Neal."

"If I don't give it to Ammon, I'll be going back to Sing-Sing." Neal's shoulder's slumped. He hated feeling trapped, and Ammon had done just that. He'd maneuvered Neal around like a little chess piece and he hadn't even realized he'd been in the middle of a game. The near arrest last night had really shaken Neal. The forged artwork with Neal's trademark signature was also enough to make him feel the cold fingers of fear run down his back.

Mozzie studied his friend for a moment. "Well. How about you make a copy and give it to Ammon? And make a copy and give it Peter? And let me take the original to Queens and check it out before either of them have a chance to read it?"

"Moz, I think you could end up in some serious problems with this. Frank means business." Neal ran a hand through his messy, bed-head hair. "I guess, if you want to pursue this, Moz, I'll do what I can to help. You know that, right?"

"Of course. I never have doubted you, Neal." Mozzie shoved his glasses back up on his nose. "I still think you're an idiot for telling the Suit about this, though."

Neal muttered "I really just don't have a choice, okay?"

Mozzie wrinkled his nose, but didn't comment. He slid his creation so half of it was hanging over the table. Neal was amused to see Mozzie had put a hinge down the middle, so it collapsed neatly into two. He clipped a little strap on it and slung it over his shoulder, carrying the three dimensional map of Queens in the 1970s over his shoulder like an extravagant, bumpy briefcase. "I'm going to take this to Sunday, and study it in order to come up with a game plan. I may need some heavy-duty equipment if he really ensconced his treasure in the brick walls of the building. My cursory reading of the diary leads me to believe that this is the case. I'm going to leave this with you, though." Mozzie slid the journal across the table to Neal. "I want the original. You can make Ammon and the Suit a copy."

"I don't know if I can fool Ammon."

Mozzie pointed a finger in the air and intoned, "We all know that Art is not truth. Art is a lie that makes us realize truth-at least, the truth that has been given to us to understand. The artist most know the manner whereby to convince others of the truthfulness of his lies."

Neal rolled his eyes. "I'm not playing your quote game, Moz."

"Picasso, you troglodyte!" Mozzie sauntered to the door, and grabbed a bottle of wine on his way past the counter.

"Hey! You owe me some wine already." Neal glared at the thought of losing of another expensive bottle.

"I brought you breakfast. We're even." Mozzie lifted the bottle in a mock salute. "Au revoir, Neal!"

Neal was left standing alone with a giant mess. He sighed and sat back down, flicking a small piece of wooden scrap off the table. He'd have to clean up Mozzie's woodworking disaster before starting to recreate the forgeries of Jimmy Burke's journal. He pulled the journal close and with his meticulous eye for detail, began examining the book while starting a running tally of items he'd need to acquire. It wasn't like he had plans for his Saturday, after all.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Thank you guys for the kind feedback. Ullswater, I'm glad to see your name again on my reviewers list! Angusina, JeanneZ84, Caseylf123, thank you for being such consistent reviewers, and always leaving me kind words! Also hi to my newest review-leaving friend, adoptarescue!

I know this story is taking longer to develop plot wise, and I'm sorry for the "boring" chapters that seemingly go nowhere (like this one), but I think you'll be pleasantly surprised. Neal might end up with his nose in a corner bottom red and smarting more than once before this story ends.


	7. In Which Peter Digs For Answers

After arguing Neal's innocence once again, Peter sent Jones and Diana to work with the tech division to analyze the video recordings from evidence. Frustrated that they were intent on dragging Neal back into the office to question him about his involvement with the forgeries and with Ammon, he decided to put some distance between the three of them. He decided to spend the morning on the phone with the police department. He was going to track down the BOLO if it was the last thing he did today. Peter was convinced that the BOLO was the ticket to unravelling the origin of these forgeries. He finally got a hold of a helpful sergeant in the Real Time Crime Unit.

"Hello, this is Sergeant Dawson, how may I help you today, sir or ma'am?" he spoke in an unusually chipper tone of voice.

"Yeah, hey, this is Special Agent Burke, from the FBI. One of my CIs was picked up last night, shortly after midnight." Peter tried to keep the annoyance out of his voice, but this was probably the fifteenth time he'd been transferred.

"Okay, Special Agent, would you like me to locate him?" Dawson was unfazed by Peter's brusque manner.

"No, I was called to come meet the two patrolmen who arrested him and I took him into our custody."

"Well, then, sir, is there a problem?" Dawson asked cautiously.

"Well, yes. The two agents, just a second, I have their names, a Detective McCallough and a Sergeant Davidson, they said a BOLO was put out on him. My CI. Neal Caffrey." Peter was a little taken aback that he found a police officer who was willing to help him, and found himself not speaking as coherently as he would prefer.

"Just a minute, sir, and I'll pull up that Be On the Look-Out report for you." Dawson typed furiously into one of the computers at his station. There was a short pause, and then, "Sir, the BOLO states that one Neal Caffrey, last spotted fleeing from FBI custody, is possibly armed and very dangerous, known art thief and forger, wearing a tracking agent for the FBI, we have a physical description here-brown hair, blue eyes, approximately 5'9 and 170 lbs-"

"Yeah, yeah, I know what the BOLO says about him." Peter interrupted impatiently.

"Then, how may I help you?" Dawson's tone, while still cheerful, grew slightly snippy as Peter's lack of manners continued.

"Who put out the BOLO?"

Dawson scanned the data in front of him. "According to what I have here, sir, it originated from the FBI. White Collar Division."

"What?" Peter couldn't hide his surprise.

"Yes, sir. It was faxed from the White Collar Division of the FBI." Dawson repeated, firmly.

"That's impossible."

"Would you like the number that was used to fax us the report?" Dawson asked, curtly. He didn't like having his professionalism questioned-and he knew how to read a BOLO report. "It says clearly, at the bottom, 'Please contact the White Collar Division of the FBI New York Field Office at (212) 384-1000.'"

"Yes, I would like the number. If that report originated in my office we have a problem. Can you also email me a copy of that BOLO?" Peter reached for a pad of sticky-notes and wrote down the information the sergeant relayed to him. The sergeant happily sent a copy of the BOLO to Peter's work email.

Before hanging up, Peter took a moment to thank Dawson. "Hey, Sergeant Dawson, thank you. I spent two hours on the phone trying to get someone to give me this information and I appreciate your professionalism."

"No problem, Special Agent! You have a great day!" Peter rolled his eyes at the exuberance, said goodbye and hung up the phone.

He stalked over the conference room where Diana and Jones were busy staring at the large TV screen, with the film analyst. "Who the hell put out a BOLO on Caffrey?" Peter brandished the sticky note at his agents. The little film analyst flinched at Peter's tone, and pushed her large coke-bottle glasses further up on her nose.

"What are you talking about, boss?" Diana chewed her gum, making a popping noise.

"This! I got a call last night because the staties arrested Neal, and I had to go collect him! Apparently, our office put a BOLO out on him."

"Why would we ask the police to be on the look out for Caffrey? That's why he's got a tracking anklet." Jones reached for the sticky note. "What's this number?"

"That's where the BOLO originated!" Peter was speaking more calmly now, although he was still animated. The little technician watched him with wide eyes.

"Boss, that isn't our fax number." Diana folded the sticky note and stood up. "Let me get one of the probies to run it." She went to the door and flagged down one of her probationary agents. She handed him the number and told him to bring back all the information he could gather on it. "You have five minutes," she directed.

"I have a working theory." Peter pulled out a chair and sat at the conference table. He leaned back in the chair and adjusted his tie.

"Yeah?" Jones pushed the laptop away from him and waited for Peter to continue.

"The pieces aren't fitting together just right, but this is what we know: Ammon was released from custody."

"Yeah, everything on the case keeps falling through." Diana sounded very dejected.

"It seems that evidence is pointing to Neal being involved."

Jones nodded his agreement, and opened an evidence folder. "Yes. We have a definite match for his MO in previous forgeries, and the most damning piece of evidence is that Neal was the last person to see the artwork! He took it from Keller to Ammon and no one else saw him or the artwork in person during that time. He could have easily stashed it somewhere and replaced it with these forgeries."

"I think he's being set-up." Peter declared.

Jones and Diana exchanged glances. This was starting to be a repeat of this morning's conversation. They had already discussed Neal's innocence as a possibility, but were unable to decide if he was involved or not simply because there was a significant lack of evidence. They didn't want to believe that Neal was really involved in the theft of two Matisse paintings, but given his track record and the mounting evidence they couldn't exactly ignore the situation.

"I just can't figure out what he's being set up for, or by who. Obviously Ammon is involved. I need to know what he gave Neal." Peter spoke absent-mindedly, his brain whirring in a million different directions. Diana and Jones were both carrying on an internal debate about arguing with their boss. They had discussed-repeatedly-that they needed to bring Neal in for questioning, and Peter's pronouncement made them wonder if he was too close to the situation to see it clearly.

"Sir?" The small film analyst raised her hand and spoke in a timid voice. "Sir, we've identified what he gave Neal."

When Peter focused his intense gaze on her, she flinched before quickly turning to her computer. She made a few clicks. A large image appeared on the screen, and after a second the blurry edges faded into crisp, clear lines. It was the exact moment Ammon slipped the small item in Neal's pocket, blown up so that Ammon's thumb took up most of the screen. "It's a small USB drive. Made by Sandisk. 8 gigs. It's black with a hard plastic-"

"Thanks, I can see that." Peter tried not to make his words sharp as she continued her excessively detailed description of a picture that he could clearly view with his own eyes. He'd never understand the nerdy tech types who worked downstairs. But, he mused, at least they were helpful when they needed them.

"Boss. Are you absolutely sure you want to give Neal the weekend?" Jones gave Peter a look that clearly conveyed he thought Peter was losing his good judgment.

"Yeah. We need to know what was on that." Diana was ready to go talk to Neal herself if Peter was going to keep refusing. Their case with Ammon wasn't going anywhere.

"I'm talking to him tomorrow. I want to figure out why someone would put a BOLO on Neal, too. In the mean time, what's our case with Keller look like?" Diana and Jones stifled their frustration with their boss. Jones pulled out a small dossier on Matthew Keller.

Diana announced, "His arraignment hearing is Monday. Should be a guilty or no-contest plea on his part."

She stood up and stretched, her long legs accented nicely by the grey pantsuit she favored. She walked to the door, ready to fuss at her probationary agent. She opened the door and was surprised to see him standing there with his hand raised, ready to knock.

"Hi, Boss, um, here's what you requested. The phone number is connected to a fax machine at a FedEx office in Saint Louis, Missouri. I called for security footage and was able to pull these photos of all the customers in the ten minute window when the fax was sent."

Diana glanced at the grainy images and shook her head. She didn't recognize anyone-but maybe Peter or Jones would.

"Oh, and here's the CD with the video footage."

Diana took the disc and smiled. "Good job. Thanks."

Her probie agent beamed with pleasure at the praise and turned to go back to work.

Diana returned to the conference room and handed the stack of data to Peter.

"See? Someone is setting him up and trying to get him arrested!" Peter felt more and more certain that his gut instinct was right.

"Yeah, but I don't recognize any of those faces." Diana decided to go with Peter's gut on this one-in a few hours of work he was able to track down enough evidence to at least curb their suspicions that Neal was intentionally involved in this mess.

"I do!" Jones pointed excitedly at one of the pictures. "That's a man named Davis. Ammon mentioned him. Here, it's in the transcripts..." Jones rifled through another evidence box and pulled out the written dialogue from their sting operation.

"He was talking with Neal about Hagen, Keller, and some guy named Davis. Apparently Ammon taught them how to be conmen, when they were younger." He flipped through the thick stack of papers until he found what he needed. "Here." He slid the document to Peter, and added, "I ran a list of Ammon's known associates, and this guy is on there. He's a local drug dealer and is involved in running arms, too."

Satisfied they'd reached a small point of closure for the day, Peter announced, "Alright guys. Go home. Tomorrow is Sunday, at least recoup some small part of your weekend. I'll talk to Neal, and we'll reconvene Monday morning, okay?"

"Yeah. We got the art consultants and the museums staff coming in Monday morning, too, don't forget." Jones began putting the evidence away according to serial number. Diana stepped in to help him, and in a few minutes they had the conference room cleared and were heading out the door. Peter stopped in his office and, with a sigh, printed off some still images of Ammon slipping the thumb-drive into Neal's pocket. He also printed a copy of the BOLO, and the picture of Davis sending the fax. He was going to ask Neal to explain these images tomorrow. If he found out that Ammon had slipped Neal something dangerous on that thumb drive and that Neal hadn't bothered to call him-or that he was really more deeply involved in the missing and forged artwork, even though Peter was mostly sure of his innocence-he was going to be furious. He had _just _laid out the ground rules for Neal, and the number one item on his list was "no keeping dangerous secrets."

In addition to the frustration Peter felt over Neal's penchant for ignoring any rule he didn't particularly like at the moment, Peter honestly felt worried. There were elements at play that he couldn't see, and his gut was screaming at him that something wasn't quite right. He tucked the pictures into a folder, and flicked off his office lights. He'd keep digging until they found the missing artwork, cleared Neal's name, and had put Ammon behind bars once again-he was The Architect, after all.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Thank you for the lovely reviews...they seriously make me super excited and leave mewanting to update more often. I have a long holiday weekend (Happy Birthday, America!), so I'll try to update at least once more...maybe even twice more...before returning to work on Monday.


	8. In Which Peter And Neal Have Dinner

Neal had completed one copy of the Jimmy Burke journal. He had taken several high-definition photos of the original and was going to give the pictures to Peter. He didn't feel right about trying to pass off one of his forgeries as the real McCoy-no matter how skilled and perfect it was-to Peter. It felt too close to lying. Peter would probably say, without a doubt, that he was 'intending to deceive' him and Neal didn't want to imagine how that conversation would end. Both journals were stacked neatly at the end of the table. He was going to text Ammon back tonight, after Peter left, and arrange a meeting to deliver the journal. He didn't want to see what Ammon would do if he didn't meet his 48 hour time limit.

Sprawled across the rest of the table were pictures of the two paintings that had gone missing from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Neal was studying them carefully. He felt confident he could recreate a forgery that would fool everyone. Neal rubbed at his temples, the tension headache he'd been fighting since morning was growing worse. It wasn't that creating a forgery was hard, or even a challenge for Neal. But there were too many other factors involved. He would have to somehow get the painting to Peter in a believable way. He could break into Evidence Lockup and switch his forgery for Hagen's shoddy work. Again, not overly hard, but given the window of time he had, Neal doubted that he could pull it off without Peter noticing. He could also get into the Met and leave it somewhere for the curator to find. Maybe, Neal mused, he could put it in the back where they kept all of the originals that were being restored, or stuff it into the overhead in the elevators. That way, when the painting surfaced, it would look like Keller had left the original and was intending on returning for it at a later date-after he'd sold a forgery to Ammon. Neal groaned in frustration when he realized the Met was out of his two-mile radius. He'd have to get special permission from Peter, and that would surely tip off his handler that something was amiss.

Neal stood up from the table and paced angrily through his apartment. He had less than 6 hours before Peter was coming over and he hadn't even figured out dinner, much less forged the two paintings. He'd need more time than 6 hours, anyway. Deciding to put the forgery part of his plan on the back burner in favor of cooking, Neal stomped to the fridge and did a small inventory of ingredients. Neal gave some consideration to dinner, unsure of what to make. Peter was a meat and potatoes kind of guy, Neal mused.

Neal felt an unreasonable level of anxiety about Peter coming over for dinner. With an internal eye-roll at his obvious nervousness, he reminded himself that this was the same Peter that had once stayed up all night on his couch, listening and talking to Neal over his night of amnesty. This was the same Peter who had actually broken into a security office and stolen incriminating footage to keep Neal out of trouble. Granted, that act was caught on film and Ammon was attempting to use it in his blackmailing efforts-but still. It reassured Neal that Peter would go to such lengths to protect him.

Neal stood at the sink, hands braced against the countertop. He tried to talk the nervous feelings away. "He did just get up in the middle of the night to collect you from the cops, Neal." he muttered to himself. "He wouldn't have done that if he was mad. And, he said I wasn't in trouble, he just wanted to talk about the case."

With one final shake of his head to toss his brown hair out of his eyes, Neal pulled a rack of short ribs out of the fridge. Dumping brown sugar, paprika, garlic powder, and hickory smoked salt into a mixing bowl, he quickly had the perfect rub blended together. He lined a pan with foil, and after rubbing the rack of ribs down with his blend, he slid the ribs into the oven on the bottom tray.

The main course taken care of, he scrubbed clean a few potatoes. He dug the eyes out before wrapping them in foil. He tossed them into the oven on the top shelf of the oven. Neal put a few strips of bacon into a pan to fry. While it was cooking, he diced up the shallots. He stretched his lithe body, standing on his tip-toes to retrieve some small serving bowls from the top shelf of his cabinet. He set them out on the counter in a neat little row and began filling them-crumbled bacon, diced shallots, a few spoonfuls of sour cream, shredded cheese. A glance at the clock put Neal into over-drive, and he hastily tried to put his kitchen back to rights.

Neal dried his hands and gave his house a quick once-over. He tucked the journal and its copy into his cubbyhole behind the painting near his bed, along with all of the pictures of the Matisse Portraits of a Sailor that he was referencing for his forgery, and the thumb drive. Deciding that since all evidence that might make Peter upset was properly hidden, he headed over to his couch.

With feet propped up on the coffee table-trying to ignore the offending tracking anklet-Neal wondered how much he was going to tell Peter about Ammon's threats. Neal didn't want to bring it up at all. He could probably, safely, tell Peter about the blackmail, but he definitely couldn't tell him about Mozzie's expedition to the Statue of Liberty. Peter would ask questions, and he'd have to give up the journal. Mozzie had insisted that he keep the original, and he'd be livid if "the Suit" confiscated it. Besides, if he told Peter about the journal, he'd pry into their plans about recovering the eight million dollars. Running his hands through his hair, Neal decided that he would offer the blackmail to Peter, as a sort of attempt at keeping the peace. A sign of good faith-to show Peter he wasn't up to any shenanigans. He'd simply say he hadn't solved the riddle, and that way he wouldn't have to explain the trip to Lady Liberty and his forged copy of Jimmy Burke's journal. Neal nodded in satisfaction. He could do that.

There was a knock at the door, and Neal jumped up to answer it. All of the nerves he thought he had banished came rushing back, and he took a deep breath to calm himself. He reached for the doorknob and froze with his fingers barely brushing the metal. Neal had just realized that he couldn't tell Peter about the blackmail, because then Peter would probably realize Neal would be plotting to replace Hagen's forgery with his own. Neal chewed on his bottom lip for a second, and tried to sort out his troubles with Peter. He had promised to tell Peter about any dangerous situations he found himself in, and being blackmailed by Ammon definitely fit into that category. But confiding in Peter would lead to him unravelling Neal's plans. All of his plans. _No,_ Neal decided, _telling Peter anything at this stage would be dangerous. What if he doesn't believe me? He'd send me back to Sing-Sing. I'm better off keeping this from him for a few more days. __I'll tell Peter as soon as I've cleared my name and gotten Ammon off my back._

_I will tell him. _Neal promised himself, _I will. _Neal took a deep breath, and felt his mask slide into place. He smiled and opened the door. "Hi, Peter."

"Hey. I brought beer for me, and bottle of wine for you-El said it's a good one." Peter proffered the grocery bag with a smile, glad to see that Neal wasn't as upset as he had been on Friday night. "It smells great in here, what are you making?"

"Short ribs and baked potatoes. Want a beer?" Neal took the bag from Peter. Peering inside, he gave the wine an appraising look-a Pinot Gris wouldn't be too strong with the short ribs and should accent the dry rub nicely._ Although_, he thought wryly, _the pairing would be lost on Peter. Good thing he would be drinking beer. _

Peter walked over to the easel and admired Neal's latest painting. It was partially finished, a small boy sitting at a drug-store countertop looking up at someone. The boy's feet were dangling, and the adult in the picture was only half finished-all lines and no detail. A small knapsack was tossed on the floor near the boy's seat. "I don't recognize this one, Neal." Peter took the beer Neal handed him, and took a sip.

"Norman Rockwell's The Runaway." Neal pulled a post card print from behind the canvas, and handed it to Peter.

Peter smiled when he realized the unfinished man in the painting was a police officer. The scene looked like the policeman was rescuing, or at the very least keeping a watchful eye, on the young boy who was attempting to run away from home. "Isn't Norman Rockwell a little inexpensive for your forgery tastes?"

"Well, an original Norman Rockwell oil on canvas, especially one that was used as a cover for the Saturday Evening Post isn't really cheap, the last one sold at auction for over one million." Neal shrugged. "But you've made it rather inconvenient for me to forge anything these days, Peter." He smiled when Peter shot him an almost apologetic glance.

"The ribs are almost done. You hungry?" Neal left Peter looking thoughtfully at the painting, and headed into the kitchen to pull dinner out of the oven.

Comfortable silence reigned while they devoured dinner. Neal felt himself slowly calming down, feeling reassured by the constancy that Peter brought. It was strange that just spending time with Peter could make him more comfortable. Peter finally pushed his plate away and grabbed for another napkin. "That was really delicious, Neal. Don't think I've had ribs like that since El and I went to South Carolina for a getaway to Myrtle Beach."

Neal smiled. "The trick is to bake 'em on low for a long time, if you can't smoke them properly. Makes the meat fall right off the ribs."

Peter took a swig of his beer. "I like to throw 'em on the grill, but I might try slow cooking them next time." Peter crumpled the napkin he was wearing tucked into his collar, revealing a cream colored sweater. He added that napkin to the small pile near his elbow before scooping them all up and depositing them on his plate with the rib bones. He made his way to the trash can. "I'll start the dishes, if you clear the table, Neal."

Neal hastily piled the remaining items on the table onto the baking pan that had previously contained the ribs. He carried the precarious stack over to the counter. "S'okay, Peter. I'll do the dishes."

"Nonsense. You made dinner." Peter took the bowls off the tray and dumped them into the soapy water.

Neal dumped the trash and grabbed a towel. "Fine," he groused. In short order everything was cleaned. Neal felt a little tension building, worried what Peter might say about Ammon and the case. He leaned his back against the countertop, and fiddling with the towel, decided to just ask.

"So, Peter, what did you want to talk about? Why'd you want to meet before work tomorrow?" Realizing he was fidgeting, he put both hands on the edge of the counter, trying for nonchalance.

Peter reached for the towel dangling from Neal's fingers, and dried his hands and wiped the counter down. "Well, Jones was reviewing some evidence, and...well, I'll show you. Let's go sit down." Peter tossed the towel at the sink and made his way to the couch. He retrieved the folder of photographs and the copy of the BOLO from where he'd set it near the front door. Neal trailed behind him, feeling nervous. He wondered if Peter was going to bring up the near-arrest. He sat down next to Peter. It took him a minute to realize he was sitting on the edge of the chair, and tapping his foot nervously. He took a breath and forced himself to relax. He slid back on the couch and stretched his feet out in front of him. Peter didn't miss Neal's attempt to portray calmness. Even if he hadn't been trained by the FBI to read body language, he could tell something was causing his young CI stress. He furrowed his eyebrows and watched Neal for a moment. Neal smiled winningly, and Peter decided to leave that particular issue alone, for now.

"So, first, this is a photo we have of the paintings in evidence." He handed the picture to Neal. He immediately realized, with a sinking feeling in his gut, that it was identical to the pictures on the thumb drive from Ammon. The sloppily applied 'signature' of NC had been circled on the photograph. Neal tried to swallow past the lump in his throat. It wasn't until Peter placed his hand on Neal's knee that he realized the agent was talking to him.

"Neal. Neal. Hey! Look at me."

"I didn't! Peter you gotta believe me, I didn't, that's not my work." Neal tried to still his hands because he noticed the picture was quivering in his grip.

"I believe you. Hey." Peter took the photograph from Neal's hand, startling him. He looked at Peter with wide eyes. Peter repeated himself. "I believe you, okay?"

"'kay." Neal's voice was small. He had been afraid Peter was going to arrest him, or yell at him, or punish him. His imagination had spun wildly out of control in a few seconds.

Peter squeezed Neal's knee. "Are you alright?"

"Yes." Neal took a deep breath. Peter briefly wondered if Neal was so skittish because he had spanked him a few days ago. If that was the case he was really glad he'd given Neal a few days to decompress. The rest of the conversation wasn't going to be easy for either of them.

"Well, there's another problem. Some of the footage we have in evidence..." Peter's voice trailed off as he handed Neal two photographs of Ammon slipping the thumb drive into his pocket.

Peter watched Neal carefully while he examined the evidence. He looked at the photos, and swallowed. He wondered precisely what Peter knew. He realized that there was no way Peter could have seen the contents of the thumb drive. Neal could see all of his carefully crafted plans come crashing down around him, if he said the wrong thing and tipped off Peter. He knew Mozzie would be livid at the potential loss of 8 million dollars. Neal briefly wondered what Ammon would do if Neal told the FBI and got him arrested again. He was pretty sure Ammon would have some sort of contingency plan in place-no doubt Keller and Hagan would have been given some sort of instructions to cause him pain. In a split second, Neal decided to stick with his original plan. He'd tell Peter-but after he sorted out the situation. What Peter didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Oh, my dear readers, I logged in this morning and was flabbergasted at the number of reviews and notes in my inbox. You're too kind to me. Just to give you an update, I'm trying to figure out how to condense the next three chapters into one, but it's at over 6000 words. M is being a dear and beta-ing for me (and yes, if I haven't said it before, all typos and mistakes are mine, not his). As a quick preview for these next few chapters, Peter won't be leaving the house without finally getting the truth out of Neal. And you'll agree with Neal that lying to Peter is never a good idea!

And, to my Guest with the request...I will see what I can do about writing said scene for you! It may be a one-shot (but we'll see how the rest of the story goes), but let me see what creative juices get flowing this weekend! I love taking writing prompts. (do you want a humorous scene, or a serious, Peter-is-really-pissed-off scene?)


	9. In Which Neal Worries About Paint

...Peter watched Neal carefully while he examined the evidence. He looked at the photos, and swallowed. He wondered precisely what Peter knew. He realized that there was no way Peter could have seen the contents of the thumb drive. Neal could see all of his carefully crafted plans come crashing down around him, if he said the wrong thing and tipped off Peter. He knew Mozzie would be livid at the potential loss of 8 million dollars. Neal briefly wondered what Ammon would do if Neal told the FBI and got him arrested again. He was pretty sure Ammon would have some sort of contingency plan in place-no doubt Keller and Hagan would have been given some sort of instructions to cause him pain. In a split second, Neal decided to stick with his original plan. He'd tell Peter-but after he sorted out the situation. What Peter didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

* * *

When Neal didn't say anything, Peter prompted, "Well? Do you have that thumb drive?"

Neal shook his head carefully. He made eye contact with Peter, and said as sincerely as he could manage, "I didn't know he stuck something in my pocket, Peter."

"Well, go check your dirty laundry." Peter leaned back on the couch. He desperately wanted to believe that Neal was telling him the truth.

"I can't." Subconsciously, Neal's eyes darted up and to the right for a split second, before he deliberately made eye contact with Peter. He desperately wanted to rub his nose, but knew that was a general indicator that a person was lying. He relaxed his hands instead, spreading his fingers out over his knees. His mind racing for some sort of logical, believable lie, Neal added, "I took them to the dry cleaners yesterday." Neal brushed his chocolate hair off his forehead, and held eye contact with Peter.

Peter pursed his lips. Even without utilizing all of the interrogation training the FBI gave him, Peter knew all of Neal's tells. In part this was due to having spent years chasing him, but also, because he had spent just as much time working hand-in-hand with him. He knew when his CI was lying to him. He gave a slow nod, and pulled out his phone. He pulled up his email and found the daily report on Neal's tracking anklet. He glanced over it every night before bed-even though it irritated El-and he hadn't remembered seeing anything about dry cleaning on it. Sure enough, he scanned through the document, with Neal's one excursion to the abandoned wharf where he nearly got arrested, he hadn't left the house. Peter set his phone on the table and stood up, not saying anything. Neal watched him, trying his best to appear relaxed. Peter headed over to the easel by the kitchen table, and picked up a small tube of paint. He put a tiny dollop on his finger and walked over to the corner where his bookshelf butted up against the wall. He was about a yard away from where Neal perched on the end of the grey couch. Neal's brow furrowed as he tried to figure out what Peter was doing.

Peter held his hand flat, palm down, in front of his eyes. Holding it horizontally, he dropped his hand an inch, so it was even with his nose. He then moved it an inch lower. Still measuring some invisible marker, he moved his hand back up to his nose, and down again. After a second of further consideration, he pressed his finger into the corner, leaving a small, dot at his chin level. He headed back to the easel and wiped his finger off on a rag near the paint supplies.

"Is that some sort of Rorschach ink test you're inventing, Peter?" Neal's question made Peter grin.

"No, I thought I'd get into some pointillism." he responded lightly, which made Neal grin in turn.

"Well, you're no George-Pierre Seurat." He chewed on the inside of his lip, because Peter's smile had faded. He sat down next to Neal, again, and looked him squarely in the face.

Once he was sure he had Neal's attention, Peter spoke. His tone was calm, but authoritative. "Neal, go get the thumb-drive."

"I didn't know Ammon put something in my pocket, and I don't have it." Neal answered Peter firmly. Any guilt he felt about lying to Peter had long since disappeared in the efforts to avoid being caught in a lie.

Peter's mind was racing. He was positive Neal was lying to him. The urge to swat Neal for blatantly lying made the palm of his right hand itch. He made a slight fist in order to press his fingernails repeatedly into his palm. Peter was surprised that he could have a physical reaction to Neal's lying. He hadn't expected that.

The night he spanked Neal, Peter had laid out some spanking ground rules and made some promises to himself while he rubbed Neal's back until he fell asleep. He hadn't shared them with Neal, though-they were his own personal lines that he would not cross. One of them was he would never spank Neal without proof, and without Neal's agreement. He would never, ever, lay a hand on Neal in anger. He was growing frustrated that Neal would intentionally lie to him, and Peter tried to figure out what could possibly have motivated him to look him in the eye and spin a tale like this. He didn't want to threaten and force him to tell the truth, he wanted Neal to trust him enough to confide in him. Peter sighed, and stood up. He reached down and gently took Neal by the upper arm. He held him in the same place he would have grabbed Neal if he were wearing handcuffs-Peter's hand tucked under Neal's armpit and fingers curled around his bicep. He carefully steered Neal past the coffee table and around the end of the couch.

Neal was sputtering, but compliant. "Peter, what are you doing? Hey! Seriously, Peter. Peter?" He let Peter maneuver him.

After Peter had Neal positioned where he wanted him, he put a hand on Neal's shoulder. "Look at me, kid." He waited until he had Neal's full attention.

"I know you're lying to me." Neal's eyes widened.

Peter continued, "I'm a little upset that you don't trust me enough to tell me the truth." Neal's eyes widened further, eyebrows raised. He opened his mouth to argue and deny Peter's claim that he didn't trust him, but Peter spoke before he had a chance to form any words.

"I think you need a few minutes, without any distractions, to think through my questions, and the possible outcomes in front of you." Peter pointed to the dot. "Put your nose there."

Neal balked. "What?"

Peter just leveled a look at Neal that made him feel about two feet all. He tapped the corner, above the dot, and said one word.

"Nose."

Hesitantly, Neal leaned forward until his nose touched the dot. He had the absurd thought that that he hoped the paint was dry because he'd look silly with paint on his nose. That thought was immediately followed with the realization that he was _standing in the corner _like a child, and he already looked silly enough on his own. His face flushed bright red in embarrassment. He couldn't believe Peter had made him put his nose in the corner. And he couldn't believe he'd gone along with it! He shifted and moved his feet closer to the corner-he felt very self conscious and uncomfortable. After a second he pulled his face away from the corner and looked up at Peter. "For how long?"

Peter glared at him. "Keep it there, Neal. I'll let you know." Peter waited until Neal pressed his face back into the corner, and then he quietly crossed the living room to sink into one of the brown chairs. He propped his elbows on his knees and cradled his head in his hands. _Why did Neal have to be so difficult, and so self-destructive!_

* * *

**Author's Note: **Lovely Readers, I have spent a ridiculous amount of time on the White Collar Lexicon looking at pictures of Neal's apartment (and flicking through older episodes on Netflix), trying to figure out exactly which corner I would put Neal's nose in if were about to spank him (which, I suppose, for the purposes of this story, I am). If anyone has a better suggestion, let me know, because as much as I want Neal standing in a corner, he's got shit all over his apartment! There's not a single easy-access corner to use! *grumble, grumble* I decided to put him in the little nook that the end of his couch creates...the bookshelf meets the wall, and the couch is against the wall...leaving about three feet of space between the couch and the bookshelf. Just enough space to stand and face the corner. If you don't mind that half of corner is a wall of books. ...*sigh*

Also...my sassy, impatient guest, my four-day holiday weekend isn't over yet! And this is update number three! =P pbtthh! So there! This chapter is for you! Seriously though, thank you for all the kind feedback all of you. I have approximately 24 hours to maybe squeeze in another chapter. Maybe. ;)


	10. In Which Neal Has A Panic Attack

...Neal leaned forward until his nose touched the dot. His face flushed bright red in embarrassment. He couldn't believe Peter had made him put his nose in the corner. And he couldn't believe he'd gone along with it! He shifted and moved his feet closer to the corner-he felt very uncomfortable. After a second he pulled his face away from the corner and looked up at Peter. "For how long?"

Peter glared at him. "Keep it there, Neal. I'll let you know." Peter waited until Neal pressed his face back into the corner, and then he quietly crossed the living room to sink into one of the brown chairs. He propped his elbows on his knees and cradled his head in his hands. _Why did Neal have to be so difficult, and so self-destructive!_

* * *

Neal couldn't help himself. He started to pull his face away from the corner. Then, he remembered the no-nonsense tone Peter had used when he ordered, "keep it there, Neal!" With an imperceptible shiver he relaxed the muscles he had poised to use. Neal felt another surge of embarrassment at his position. Feeling the blush in his cheeks and ears made everything worse. He gradually realized that, even though he felt a little immobilized by Peter's order to stay in the corner, he wasn't powerless. Peter hadn't cuffed him, or humiliated him-he felt a little humiliated because he felt like a little kid and he didn't like that at all-but Peter was not being disrespectful or mocking him. He told him to stay there, and he expected him to do it. With a huff, Neal closed his eyes and decided to focus on controlling his breathing and calming his body down, instead of focusing on the fact that he was _standing in the corner._ After a few short minutes-although it felt like a long time to Neal-he realized he was no longer blushing, and he surprisingly felt a little more calm.

Opening his eyes, Neal glared at the wall. He was slightly distracted by the dust on the bookshelf. "I wonder when the last time someone cleaned over here," he pondered. Neal focused on the grain pattern of the wood on the bookshelf, and then felt himself go cross-eyed trying to examine the spot of paint at the tip of his nose. Neal tried to glare at the dot of blue paint. Peter had actually gotten the spot exactly level with Neal's nose. His mind wandered, from his paint that Peter had used for the dot, to the painting he needed to forge to rectify Ammon's attempts to end Neal's freedom. It was around this thought that he remembered Peter's instructions.

"I think you need a few minutes without any distractions, to think through my questions, and the possible outcomes in front of you."

_Possible outcomes...that could be all sorts of bad. What if I go back to jail? _Neal bit the inside of his lip as he considered the terror of going back to prison. Before his panic could spike, though, he remembered how Peter had reacted a few minutes ago. Peter had immediately taken Neal at his word when he denied creating the forgeries the FBI had locked up in evidence. Neal knew how bad it looked to have two forgeries with his initials on them. He wouldn't even get a court hearing, Peter could simply use that as justification to end their work-release program and send him back to jail. Instead, he had said without hesitation, "I believe you, Neal."

_Peter trusts me._ Neal reassured himself. It was a very consoling thought. _Peter trusts me._

Immediately following that thought was the memory of the look on Peter's face when he said, "I'm a little upset that you don't trust me enough to tell me the truth." Neal felt a little twinge of fear at the realization. Peter said Neal had made him feel upset.

He'd upset Peter.

Peter was angry with him.

Angry that Neal didn't trust him. Peter was angry that Neal had lied to him. He poked at the bookshelf with his right foot as Peter's matter-of-fact statement from the other day echoed in Neal's thoughts. "If you lie to me, I will spank you."

Neal felt his chest tighten. He tried to stay calm. Suddenly all he could only think about Peter's promise. "If you lie to me, I will spank you."

He felt his hands flutter at his sides-he suddenly wanted to cover his bottom. He wondered what he looked like, to Peter, with his nose pressed in the corner. If Peter was even watching him. Maybe Peter was so irritated with Neal he wanted him to stand in the corner so he wouldn't have to see him. He resisted the urge to turn around and look at Peter. He huffed into the corner.

The thought that he had disappointed Peter, and made him angry, and that he was going to spank him, was almost too much for Neal's already fragile emotions.

Neal had one final thought-this one got stuck on a loop.

_You deserve a spanking because Peter can't trust you, you're a liar._

He could practically hear Peter's voice as he replayed his words from a few nights ago. "I want to be able to trust you." _Peter can't trust you, you're a liar. If he doesn't trust you, he will believe that those forgeries are yours, and you'll go back to prison. __  
_

"No lying. Don't conceal information from me." _Your actions are why Peter can't trust you. _

"If you lie to me, I will spank you." _He promised he would, and you lied anyway, why didn't you trust him?_

The threat from Ammon was magnified with Neal staring into the corner. "You have forty-eight hours," the text had read. That was later tonight-by midnight, in fact. The reality that after Peter left, Neal would have to contact Ammon to report he had the journal, and possibly meet with one of his goons to give up the book. He hadn't thought through the ramifications of that, and now he was a little worried. Possible scenarios-including being held at gunpoint by Keller, or arrested by some nameless cop, while Ammon's goons ransacked his apartment for the journal-sent shivers of fear through Neal. _Why didn't you trust Peter? He said he believed you. But you keep lying to him and now he won't be able to trust you. And he might send you back to jail because of it!_

"I need the original, Neal. Give Ammon the copy. Heck, give Peter a copy." Mozzie's advice had seemed logical this morning. _Peter wants to trust you, but you keep lying to him._

Neal had worked himself into a panic. He was nearly hyperventilating. Neal's shoulders were shaking, a little, and his hands were visibly trembling. _Peter can't trust you, you lied to him. He knows you lied about the thumb drive, and he thinks you're lying about the forgeries. He's going to give up on you._

Peter had been sitting on one of the brown chairs across from the couch, so that he could keep an eye on Neal while sifting through his own thoughts. Neal's lies had frustrated him, but it was more than his usual annoyance at feeling like he was being manipulated. Peter was genuinely concerned for Neal, and not knowing what was going on in his CI's world when there were clearly dangerous men involved was a little bit terrifying for Peter. He couldn't protect Neal if Neal kept him in the dark.

With a sigh, Peter pulled his phone out to check the time. When he deposited Neal in the corner, he had decided to give Neal about seven minutes. That would be long enough, Peter figured, for his thoughts to shift from anger and annoyance over being put in time-out, to constructive thinking about why Peter had made him put his nose in the corner. Too long and he would grow impatient. Neal needed less stimulation to focus on what Peter was asking. He debated playing another level of Angry Birds to quit focusing on the worry he felt over Neal, but clicked the screen off and leaned forward to place it on the coffee table. He caught the fluttering of Neal's hand in his peripheral vision. It looked like his CI was having a panic attack, tucked away in the corner. Overwhelmed with concern, and a tiny bit of guilt that he had given Neal such anxiety, Peter was on his feet and at Neal's side in a second.

"Hey. Whoa. Take a deep breath." Peter put his hand on the base of Neal's neck. He ran his thumb in small circles on the side of Neal's neck. Peter could feel Neal's pulse under his thumb; it was beating fast. His hand was large enough that even though his thumb was tucked at Neal's jaw, his fingers could easy reach the small indentation in Neal's collarbone. Peter's fingers pressed gently against Neal's knotted muscles, running in soothing circles. "Deep breaths, Neal."

Even though Peter's voice was tender, Neal couldn't stop that thought from screaming through his consciousness. _You deserve a spanking because Peter can't trust you. He said he would spank you if you lied to him, and you've been lying all evening. He's hurt, he can't trust you, you're going back to Sing-Sing. You're a liar, he can't trust you, he might send you back to prison, he's angry, what if he sends you back? He's angry. _Neal's trembling increased, and he wrapped his arms around his chest. He pressed his forehead against the corner, trying to use it as a shield. If he didn't look at Peter, maybe he could try to convince himself that Peter wasn't angry.

"Neal. Look at me." Peter pulled Neal around and held him in a tight hug. "Take a deep breath!" Peter ordered. "In, out, in-okay, okay, take a deep breath again..." Peter repeated comforting phrases like "It's alright, you're alright, just breathe. Deep breaths, Neal," punctuated with "shh-shhh-shh" noises. Peter cupped the back of Neal's head with one hand, pressing him against his neck. Peter ran his other hand up-and-down over Neal's back, trying his best to get Neal to calm down. Peter had the brief thought that he was handling the situation as if Neal were a child, but he didn't know what else to do. Neal finally calmed; Peter was relieved that he had stopped shaking.

Peter sat down on the couch and pulled Neal after him. Neal curled up funny, his knees against the back of the couch, with his head still held against Peter's chest. Peter kept his arm around Neal, supporting his upper body. Neal kept his arms pressed tight against his own chest and tried to keep his breathing level. Peter opened his mouth to apologize-he wasn't sure what caused Neal to start panicking, but he felt responsible for it. He paused, though, to deliberate over his words.

Neal, finally calmed, cautiously peered up at Peter and asked, "Are you angry?" Neal tucked his face back against Peter's shoulder, trying to hide from Peter's answer. He breathed in and felt comforted by the familiar smell of Peter's aftershave.

"That's what you were having a panic attack over there about?" Peter raised an eyebrow and looked down at the top of Neal's head.

"Yeah, that I made you angry. Cause, you know, I sort of..." Neal's voice trailed off in a whisper.

"You sort of what?" Peter waited patiently.

"I sort of lied to you." Neal spoke the sentence in a rush. He still avoided making eye contact with Peter.

Peter took a moment to choose his words. He knew Neal wasn't being honest about the stupid thumb drive! He finally said, "I am frustrated that you lied to me, but at this moment right now, no, I'm not mad at you."

"But you will be." Neal mumbled. He tried to sit up, and Peter gently helped him extricate himself without falling off the couch.

Instead of arguing with Neal about how he would react to whatever secrets his CI was keeping, Peter asked, "What about me being angry is so scary?"

Neal shrugged. He didn't want to explain why Peter being angry had caused him to have a panic attack. He knew Peter had been furious with him before-the whole Raphael incident, the pointing-a-gun-at-Fuller incident, heck, last week when he'd engaged Ammon after being told to stay in the surveillance van-those had all been times when he thought Peter was going to haul him off to jail and be done with him. Feeling the need to say something to answer Peter's question, he started to talk.

"You said, after...after you spanked me," Neal mumbled a little, still feeling kind of embarrassed about the whole incident, "that you would rather figure out a solution together, and..." Neal picked at the quick of his thumbnail while he tried to find the right words to explain himself to Peter. "I was afraid what your solution might be. What if you didn't believe me..." Neal paused. He couldn't quite bring himself to voice his fear of Peter abandoning him and sending him back to prison.

Neal bit his lip. "I was just going to take care of everything and then tell you, so you wouldn't be upset. And so you wouldn't have to send me to jail." Neal stared at his hands. He didn't realize his shoulders were hunched over, but Peter was very aware of how defensively Neal was sitting. He placed his arm around Neal and pulled him close.

Peter sighed. Before he could say anything, though, Neal added, "And you said you were going to spank me for lying to you."

Peter wondered briefly if Neal was that scared of another spanking, so he made a mental note to ask him in a bit. "We'll talk about spanking and lying, later. Okay?" He waited for Neal to nod his head. "I need you to tell me the truth, now, though. And then we can come up with a solution-together. My solution would never be to send you back to jail. That's really what this is about?"

Neal barely nodded. "I just thought...if you didn't believe me or were upset and you sent me to jail, I couldn't stand it if you were that angry at me." Peter felt his heart break a little bit. He had no idea that Neal was that terrified of returning to prison. It slowly dawned on him that what Neal was really saying was he was afraid of a permanently damaged relationship between them. Not so much going to jail-but the finality of Peter walking away from him, no longer caring about what happened to Neal. Peter had no idea how to reassure Neal that his fears were groundless. He felt saddened that Neal didn't trust him. He didn't know how to curb Neal's fears, and that really caused the FBI agent frustration.

Neal swallowed. He stood up and walked over to the painting near his bed. It swung open on the hinge, and he began pulling items out, one by one. The two journals, the photographs, the thumb drive. Peter's eyebrows inched up toward his hairline as he watch Neal retrieve his stash. This was going to be one hell of a story.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Lovely readers, I'm sorry I had to split this chapter into two. I promise...the spanking is going to happen for Neal, and very, very soon. Like, next chapter. I'm really not trying to drag it out, I just didn't want to post a humongous chapter, plus it is easier for M to proofread for me when it's 3000 words instead of, you know, 6000 words. It should be up by Wednesday. Thank you for the kind words and encouragement. I did enjoy my four-day weekend, and took lots of time for me. A good deal of it I spent writing, because it is relaxing for me!

I also wanted to address, really quick, Neal's "headspace." First, I don't really like that term so much, even though it's a pretty real concept, but I think it's good for this discussion. Yes, the Neal we know and love is of the type of personality that would fight Peter over a spanking, and fight about having to go into the corner. However. This is a rather intense first-time situation for Neal. And their relationship is a little fragile at the moment. If we suspend the parameters of White Collar and assume that Peter really did spank Neal, he would be rather shaken up by it, at first. And Neal is also dealing with the events that led up to Peter spanking him, those fears of "Peter's gonna give up on me because I really, REALLY pissed him off this time." The scene when Peter confronts Neal about lying for him-I believe the end of the first Episode of Season 5?-that scene when Peter realizes he has to choose between supporting Neal's illegal actions or keeping his good name cleared, that scene is what made me realize that this would be a really perfect spanking relationship. You know, the scene when he nearly slams handcuffs on Neal, standing there in the apartment...that scene, that look of complete devastation on Neal's face-that moment, when Neal realizes he broke something, possibly irrevocably, that's kind of where Neal is emotionally in this particular story arc. And Peter's level of frustration with Neal's impetuousness, where he doesn't want to give up on Neal, but he really is running out of options-that's where Peter is mentally. Or, okay, well I'm imagining the both of them to be in that "headspace" during this story. So, will we see Neal stand at the corner and argue with Peter about a time-out in the future? Absolutely. But that's going to be once Neal isn't struggling with guilt and fear, and Peter is less inclined to believe the only way he can deal with our young CI is to handcuff him and frog march him back to Sing-Sing. So...yeah, sorry if this chapter seems out of character to you guys, but that's where I was coming from when I wrote it. Also, I hope it wasn't too difficult to read stylistically. It's _hard _to show what someone is thinking in writing.

Also, to my dear who left me a review in Portuguese...thank you! I think I'm going to use that corner later on in this story. :)

kiss kiss!


	11. In Which Neal Goes Over Peter's Lap

Neal plugged the thumb drive into his laptop. He silently handed it to Peter. He was still feeling shaky and couldn't quite get rid of the feeling that he had broken Peter's trust and he'd be finding himself back in prison again because of it. Peter quickly scrolled through the bad poem Ammon wrote, and clicked through the other files. "I thought I got all the video footage that day." Peter sounded slightly annoyed that Ammon was attempting to blackmail Neal with footage of Peter breaking into a security office to steal footage of Neal committing a crime.

He turned to Neal and tapped the computer screen. He said, "Just so you know, I put this in our field report. It's not a big deal. The FBI knows."

Neal felt suddenly foolish. Peter opened the last file, and was quite surprised. He wanted to yell at Neal for keeping this a secret. If he had brought the thumb drive in straight-away, the team would have spent considerably less time focusing on the theory that Neal had stolen the Matisse paintings. He read the small note that accompanied the pictures of the forgeries, and was a little concerned to see that there'd be more potential thefts. He turned to Neal.

"Well?" he asked. Neal shifted uncomfortably.

"I thought you might not believe me. The NC was my signature. I didn't, though. I wasn't lying about that, Peter, please believe me."

"I do, Neal." Peter could hear a small note of panic in Neal's voice, and tried to reassure him. "I know it isn't your work, because your forgeries are much higher-quality. I believe you."

Neal relaxed a little at Peter's words. Peter clicked through the files once more. "Let's talk about this first document. What is Ammon wanting you to go find for him?"

"This." Neal handed Peter the journal. Peter flipped it open and gave a small whistle when he saw the name in faint cursive script printed inside. "We studied this case at the FBI academy. It's the largest amount of cash ever stole on American soil that still hasn't been recovered." He shut laptop and set it and the journal on the coffee table. He looked at Neal. "What was your plan, exactly?"

Neal explained about making a copy of the journal. "I was going to give you the original. After, you know, Mozzie was finished with it…" He added, lamely, "I took these pictures to give you tomorrow, I was going to tell you."

Peter raised his eyebrows, doubting Neal's sudden drive for honesty. He tried to keep his tone gentle though, not wanting to cause undue stress to Neal, especially after his panic attack earlier. He recognized how difficult this whole honesty bit was for him. "Alright. Let me see if I understand this. Ammon wanted you to go steal this journal, from wherever it was—wait a minute, were you doing this when the cops picked you up?"

"I didn't steal it. My anklet wouldn't let me."

"Mozzie!" Peter said his name like it was a curse.

Neal picked at his thumbnail. He didn't want to rat out his best friend. Realizing his hesitancy and guessing at the reason why, Peter waved his hand dismissively. "Whatever. Okay, so you and Mozzie hatched this plan to steal the journal to get Ammon off your back, and you were going to give him a copy of it, and then, what? Explain to me how you planned to deal with the fact that we have a poorly forged Portrait of a Sailor Number One and Number Two, with your signatures on them, without actually telling me that Ammon is framing you?" Peter gave Neal a peculiar look. He knew his CI had a plan to clear his name, and he was honestly a little curious to see Neal's creativity at work—and to see how far he'd go.

Wordlessly, Neal picked up the photographs of the original Matisse paintings; they were bound by a rubber band. Peter looked at them, and then at Neal, waiting for an explanation. "I hadn't quite figured it out, in detail, but I was going to forge a better copy, and somehow get it into evidence. Or have it turn up at the museum. Even though it's out of my radius. The breaking into evidence and the radius issues were what I was trying to work out. The painting part—that would be easy."

Peter sighed. It was a pretty basic plan—and really, not a bad one, if Neal could work out all the logistics involved. His forgeries were unequalled in perfection. Peter had seen, more than once, Neal's art declared the original masterpiece by the experts, while they claimed the originals were really well done forgeries. Peter tossed the pictures onto the coffee table. "That's all? Nothing else you need to tell me?"

"Ammon gave me until midnight tonight to give him the journal."

Peter felt his palm start to itch again. He took a deep breath, and asked in the calmest tone he could muster, "Please explain to me how you thought not telling me about this, and meeting with him could possibly be a good idea."

Neal fidgeted under Peter's glare. He mumbled "If I had told you, I'd have to tell you everything else, and I didn't know if you'd believe me. You know, that I didn't make the stupid forgeries you have in evidence. It seemed like pretty damning evidence to me."

Peter ran his hand over his face in exasperation. This kid was going to be the death of him.

"I'm sorry you think I don't trust you, Neal."

"I lied to you. I wouldn't trust me, either." Neal looked down at his lap, sadly. His dark hair hung in his eyes.

"Are you going to spank me now?" Neal looked up at Peter.

"Yes." Peter was quiet for a second, and then asked, "Is part of why you had a panic attack because you were afraid of getting spanked?"

"I didn't like getting spanked, Peter. But it made me feel..." He floundered for a minute, trying to choose the right words. "I can't explain why, but it was a provision of security. And of boundaries. I knew that I had done something wrong, and it made you mad, but afterwards I knew that I was forgiven. I knew you were still here. That's not why I was panicking."

Neal shrugged helplessly. "I was panicking because I thought you wouldn't trust me anymore, and that you'd send me back to Sing-Sing."

"You thought our relationship was broken beyond repair?" Peter ran his hand over the back of Neal's head, messing up his hair.

"Yeah." Neal's voice was inconsolable.

"It's not. And, it doesn't need a spanking to fix it, because our relationship isn't damaged. The spanking is about reinforcing the boundaries you continually ignore. It's to remind you not to make those dumb choices again. Do you understand that, Neal?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Tell me why you're going to get a spanking."

Neal didn't say anything, at first, so Peter put his hand on Neal's knee. "Listen, Neal. When I ask you to 'tell me why you're going to get a spanking,' I want specifics. I want you to tell me which rule you broke, and how you broke it, and how next time, you are going to make a wiser decision."

When Neal didn't immediately respond, he asked gently, "Do you want some time to think about it?"

"Are you going to put me back in the corner to think about it?"

"Yes, I will, if you need help focusing on my question and coming up with an appropriate answer." Peter was quiet for a moment, and added, "And if you think you can stand in the corner without having another panic attack-I won't make you, if you think you'll have another one."

"The corner didn't make me have a panic attack. That was from...other things. I just don't like feeling like a little kid." Neal crossed his arms and glared at his lap.

Peter suppressed a smile at Neal's recalcitrant tone. He had expected Neal to resist standing in the corner-he knew it would chafe his pride. That was small part of why he made him do it in the first place. "Then you better answer me. Why are you about to get a spanking?"

"I don't want a spanking."

"It's not up for discussion, Neal. Answer my question!" Peter's voice brooked no argument.

At Peter's tone, Neal's gaze snapped to Peter's face, his eyes wide. He answered Peter, unable to ignore the command in his voice. "I kept dangerous secrets from you." He counted on his fingers, "Specifically, that Ammon had contacted me. That he had threatened me. That he had instructed me to steal something for him. That I was going to meet with him later tonight."

He paused for a minute, and then continued. "The other rule I broke was that I lied to you." Neal started over, holding up fingers as he described each offense. "I lied when you asked me if Ammon gave me the thumb drive-twice. Three times, I guess, if you count the part about taking my clothes to the dry cleaners. I intended to lie to you about the journal. And I lied to you about what I was doing when the police picked me up. Well, not exactly a lie, but you said 'intending to deceive' counts, and I wasn't going to tell you that I was chasing down the journal that night. Lying by omission, I guess."

Satisfied with Neal's answer so far-those were the same reasons Peter felt Neal deserved a spanking-Peter asked, "How are you going to make a better choice, next time, Neal?"

"I'll trust you enough to tell you right away. Because you won't just walk away from me. Because you trust me." Neal paused, and then added, "At least, you trust me when I'm telling the truth."

"Alright. Come here." Peter pushed the coffee table away before pointing at the ground in front of him.

Neal stood up from the other end of the couch. He moved slowly, suddenly filled with apprehension. His hands flew to his bottom and he tried pleading with Peter one more time. "Please, don't. I'm not keeping secrets anymore! And I'm sorry for lying to you! I didn't mean to, I was just scared. Please! I don't want a spanking."

Peter leveled a look at Neal that made him quiet. He couldn't quite stand still, though, and was nervously shifting from foot to foot in front of Peter. "Pull down, or take off, your pants."

Neal shook his head rapidly no, his hands still guarding his bottom.

Peter's voice was a warning. "Neal."

His hands shaking, Neal finally complied. He struggled a little with the belt buckle, but finally managed to get his pants down around his knees. It wasn't one of his expensive suits, so he didn't care if they got wrinkled. He didn't want to feel naked-this was embarrassing enough without adding lack of clothing to the experience.

Peter guided Neal down, over his lap. Peter shifted Neal's weight around, trying to make sure he was as comfortable as possible over his thighs. Peter also didn't want Neal to fall off his lap if he started struggling. Neal tried, futilely, to cover his bottom. He knew Peter was going to make him move his hands, but he couldn't help himself.

Peter slid a throw pillow under Neal's chest. "Are you comfortable?"

"No, I'm about to get spanked!" Neal immediately regretted his sarcasm, and buried his face in the couch cushions. Peter chuckled softly at the young man sprawled across his lap.

"Neal, you need to move your hands. You can either hold onto the pillow, or I can hold your wrists." Peter thought that maybe Neal wouldn't want to feel physically restrained-too much like wearing handcuffs. He slid his hand under Neal's arms, to rest his palm in the small of his back.

"Can I put my arm around you?" Neal's voice was subdued.

"As long as it's out of the way of your bottom." Peter wasn't quite sure what Neal was asking of him until Neal slid his arm behind Peter's back. He hugged Peter's waist. With his other hand, he clutched at the pillow.

"Are you comfortable now?" Neal started to say that he felt safer being able to hold onto Peter, but he just shook his head "yes." Peter added, "I'm going to pull your boxers down, Neal."

Neal gave a short huff into the couch, and tightened the muscles of his bottom. He felt his face flush at the ignominy of the whole situation. Peter, not receiving any further struggles or complains, flipped Neal's shirt tail up and out of the way. Peter grabbed the thin silk material and tugged his boxers down. Neal lifted his hips, trying not to focus on the cool air that caressed his backside. Neal gripped Peter more tightly. Peter slid his hand from the small of Neal's back around to his hip, and pulled the young man close.

"Neal," Peter admonished, "This is for intentionally keeping dangerous information from me." Peter raised his hand and brought it down firmly on Neal's left butt cheek. He repeated it on the right. Neal drew in a sharp breath, and tried to relax into Peter's lap, but couldn't stop himself from twitching each time Peter's hand landed. Peter's hand fell methodically, evenly covering all of Neal's bottom. Neal could tell immediately that this was different from the spanking he received earlier this week. That one was full of Peter lecturing, and pausing to let Neal collect himself. Peter also started out more gently and worked his way into the painful burn. This time, Peter started straight away with intensity, and Peter didn't appear to be stopping anytime soon.

Neal tried to remain still, but he couldn't help himself. As the spanking started to sting, he started to wriggle and squirm over Peter's lap. There was a small dip on the side of Neal's butt-cheeks when he flexed, it kept disappearing and reappearing as he tried to shake off the painful sensation. He let out little yelps in time with Peter's falling hand.

"This is the second time that you've disobeyed me in this, Neal." Peter focused his strikes on the tops of Neal's thighs, right at the crease where they met his bottom. That immediately brought a reaction from Neal. His hamstrings corded and jumped as he kicked his legs. It only took a few swats-and a few kicks-before Neal's pants were firmly tangled around his ankles. Feeling his movement hampered by his pants, Neal brought his knees up, angled against the side of Peter's thigh. He didn't care that it was undignified and that it gave Peter an unobstructed view of his rosebud and his manhood. He was just trying to get his bottom away from the falling blows. It actually presented his bottom as a better target, which Peter took generous advantage of, for a few swats-at least, until Neal tried to scramble over Peter's lap.

Peter stopped spanking to pull Neal's legs back against the couch. Peter put his hand on Neal's hip and pulled him tightly against his stomach. He kept his palm on Neal's hip and pressed his forearm against Neal's lower back, effectively pinning him against his legs. "Stop, you're only going to make it worse for yourself." Peter's voice was a low growl. Peter resumed his spanking, each swat causing Neal to whimper and his tender backside to turn just a shade more red. "Obviously, the first time I spanked you for this didn't leave much of an impression."

Neal tried to keep himself still over Peter's lap after Peter's warning, but Peter was really laying into him. He crossed, and uncrossed his ankles. As Peter focused his attention once more on the top's of Neal's thighs he couldn't help himself and he started to cry out. He buried his face in the crook of his elbow, muffling his pleas, but not by much. "Please, please, Peter, please! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm soooory!" Neal started to kick his legs again, fighting the fabric wrapped around them. "Please Peter, sir, please, stop, stop, I won't ever break a rule again, please! I'm sorry, sir!" Neal's cries pulled at Peter's heart.

Neal was frantic at this point; Peter's blows were severe as he punished his bottom. Neal's pleading had deteriorated into unintelligible nonsense. Peter didn't seem to be slowing down any time soon. Neal tried to lift himself up, but Peter's forearm and elbow made sure he couldn't move off his lap that way. He struggled against Peter, trying to get free to no avail. After a few minutes, Peter finally stopped. He reached down and untangled Neal's pants from around his ankles. He had a little bit of trouble getting the pant leg off the tracking anklet, but he soon had them tugged free. He left Neal's boxers alone, which were caught at his knees. Neal was sobbing quietly into his arms, laying still at the temporary reprieve Peter was granting. "Okay, son, come on." Peter slid his arm under Neal's chest and hoisted Neal to his feet. He half-slid off Peter's lap, sprawled awkwardly between half-kneeling on the couch and sort-of standing, but Peter was quick to stand and lift Neal the rest of the way to his feet. He held him firmly, one hand holding onto Neal's upper arm, his other hand rested on Neal's waist. Neal's face was red and a little blotchy, and he was crying and struggling to catch his breath. His hands flew to his red and naked bottom. Keeping a firm grip on Neal's arm, Peter turned Neal to his side and swatted his hands. "Negative. Only the person who puts the sting in, gets to rub the sting out. You keep your hands at your sides."

Neal let out a surprised gasp that Peter would smack his wrists and back of his hands with such force, and quickly clasped his hands in front of him, trying to rub out the smarting slap. Peter put his hand between Neal's shoulder blades and steered him toward the corner. Once he realized where he was going, Neal started crying again. "I'm sorry, Peter!" he wailed.

Peter stopped at the end of the couch. "Neal, that first spanking was for you keeping dangerous secrets from me. I want you to go stand there, in the corner, with your nose firmly on that dot, and I want you to really think about why I'm going to spank you again."

"I'm sorry! I'll never lie again! I learned my lesson, Peter!" Neal tried to move away, but Peter tightened his grip in warning.

Peter's voice was hard, "The longer you take to obey me in this, the worse the second half of your spanking will be, Neal."

Neal immediately sprang into action, and closed the short distance to the corner. In two steps, he had his nose touching the little dab of paint. He sniffled softly, and closed his eyes against the tears that continued to fall.

* * *

**Author's Note: **This chapter is entirely due to the Guest who used a particular phrase in their review that stuck with me...and so I gave it to Neal to use in trying to explain himself to Peter. Thank you!

Also, I'm feeling the usual nervousness about the content in this chapter, so be gentle with your feedback...

kiss, kiss!


	12. In Which Peter Makes A Point About Lying

"Neal, that first spanking was for you keeping dangerous secrets from me. I want you to go stand there, in the corner, with your nose firmly on that dot, and I want you to really think about why I'm going to spank you again."

"I'm sorry! I'll never lie again! I learned my lesson, Peter!" Neal tried to move away, but Peter squeezed his arm in warning.

Peter's voice was hard, "The longer you take to obey me in this, the worse the second half of your spanking will be, Neal."

Neal immediately sprang into action, and closed the short distance to the corner. In two steps, he had his nose touching the little dab of paint. He sniffled softly, and closed his eyes against the tears that continued to fall.

* * *

It took Neal a few minutes to calm down-at first, all he could do was let the tears fall while his bottom burned, his forehead resting against the striated wallpaper. He had been frantic during the last minute of the spanking. Peter had shown no mercy. It took Neal several minutes of crying in the corner before he could hold a coherent thought.

The first thought to emerge was that his bottom _hurt_ and it felt _huge_, and that he desperately wanted to rub the sting out of it. His hands started to move of their own volition, but stopped when he remembered what Peter had said about keeping his hands at his sides. He knew his bottom had to be red-it felt like it was on fire. He shifted his weight back and forth, trying to get rid of the burning sensation.

Neal let out an audible "oh, no!" when he realized that Peter had promised to spank him again very soon. Like, immediately-upon-leaving-the-corner-soon. Neal suddenly wanted to stay in the corner for as long as possible. He remembered Peter's gentle admonition from his very first spanking and burst anew into tears. Neal struggled to control his breathing and stop the tears from falling, but he couldn't. Peter had said something about using a belt, and that being over his lap was "not as painful as it could be." The difference between that first spanking and today's spanking was significant-and Peter had only used his hand! The thought that Peter could make it hurt even more than what he was currently experiencing made all the air rush out of Neal in a big whoosh. He felt a tremor of fear ripple through his body. He screwed his eyes tightly shut and tried to stop crying.

_Peter would never harm you. It might hurt, but he would never cause harm. He would never be malicious. _Neal took a great amount of comfort in that thought.

_Really think about why I'm going to spank you again. _Neal squirmed. He knew that he had lied to Peter. This was the first time he'd lied after their "ground rules" conversation. If he was completely honest with himself, Neal knew Peter should spank him. He had lied and broken his trust. He had made plans to manipulate Peter by switching out the paintings in evidence. He tried to stop the tears that welled up when he had the thought that _I expected Peter to walk away because I knew what I was doing would hurt him, and disappoint him, but I did it anyway. _

Neal had been surprised Peter wasn't going to send him to jail again. Neal knew what he was doing and that Peter had warned him against it; he had expected Peter to be furious. That's why he hadn't told Peter. He had been terrified that Peter was done with him-so terrified he'd had a panic attack not even a half hour ago! With a sniffle, Neal had the thought that he actually preferred a spanking to the possible alternatives. The spanking was boundaries. And safety. And it even let Neal know that Peter still cared enough about him to try to correct his behavior instead of giving up and tossing him in Sing-Sing. He didn't deserve Peter's friendship. He didn't deserve to work for Peter. All he did was lie. He realized with a start that he'd probably really hurt Peter by not trusting him. Neal pressed his forehead against the wall and crying softly, swore over and over again that he'd never lie to Peter again. He suddenly felt like he deserved this spanking, and he'd never, ever, lie. Never again.

* * *

Peter wanted to cry. He had been rough with Neal, and hearing his frantic pleading tore at his heart. Peter knew that Neal still didn't really understand how serious the situation was. Neal still thought he could do whatever he wanted, and it would work out all right. Neal had no inkling that Diana and Jones were ready to arrest him. Additionally, Peter knew Diana had already typed up a report, stating she had implicitly disagreed with Peter's course of action. He knew she had signed and sealed the document and stashed it in her desk. He also knew she wouldn't turn a report like that into Internal Affairs until they had exhausted every possible alternative-but if she felt that his determination to protect Neal had in anyway permanently hampered or impaired the investigation she wouldn't hesitate. He admired her dogged determination to do the right thing, and couldn't be annoyed with her. If Diana had gone to Internal Affairs straight-away, though, instead of typing up the report, he could have been fired if they deemed he was obstructing an investigation. Or, at the very least, put on probation. In fact, if they did investigate him now, they might still come to that same conclusion. Furthermore, Neal's lies really did, on some level, erode the trust Peter had extended to him. Peter didn't want to have to check his tracking anklet report every night. He didn't want to wonder what Neal was hiding.

Peter was pacing around the small living room, keeping an eye on Neal. He was hunched over in the corner, crying. His bottom was bright red and peeked out from underneath his white shirt. His boxers were still bunched up around his knees, the bright, canary yellow silk reduced to a thin strip of color where they were tangled. Neal was practically prancing in place. He was shifting from one foot to the other, rolling up on the balls of his feet, and clenching and unclenching his thighs and bottom. If Peter didn't feel so bad about spanking Neal in the first place, he would've found his little dance rather adorable. His arms were making small swinging motions as his fluttering fingers kept moving toward his bottom before momentarily clenching into fists at his sides. Peter was surprised to see that Neal was obeying him-in this, at least-and leaving his well-spanked bottom alone.

He plopped down on the chair across from Neal. He pressed his fingers against his temple and spent a few minutes deliberating how he was going to deliver the second half of Neal's spanking. He knew he needed to make a really clear point about Neal's lying. He figured the easiest way to do that was to use something other than his hand to paddle Neal's bottom. He wanted Neal to think long and hard about ever lying to him again. He briefly entertained the idea of using his belt-that had always made a long-lasting impression on him, when his father used a belt. He immediately dismissed the idea. It had left him feeling terrified and helpless as a child. He stood up and walked into the kitchen. He gave Neal a quick glance over his shoulder to ensure he was still obeying his instructions. He seemed a little calmer, now. At least, he was fidgeting less. Content that Neal would stay in place, Peter rummaged through a few drawers until he found what he wanted.

"Neal." Peter's voice was firm. "Come here." Peter was standing in the middle of the room. Neal slowly turned around, but didn't leave the corner. He tried to wipe the tears away, but he was still sniffling.

"I'm sorry, Peter," he said. "I'm sorry I lied to you."

Peter nodded once, "I know. I said to come here." He gave Neal his customary two-finger summons.

Neal slowly walked across the room and stopped in front of Peter. He entwined his fingers in front of him, nervously twisting his hands around. He was acutely aware that his boxers were still twisted around his knees. "I'm sorry!"

"There will be no more lying to me, Neal. Do you understand that?" Peter's tone was firm.

"Yes." Neal quickly added, "Sir!"

"I warned you that I was going to spank you if you lied to me. You lied to me three times just this evening, and before that you purposely omitted truths in order to deceive me."

Neal couldn't make eye contact with Peter. He stared at his feet and moved his hands to cover his red bottom. "I'm sorry!"

"Look at my eyes, Neal." Peter waited until Neal raised his head and was looking at him. "When you lie to me it erodes trust. When you lie to me, it hurts me. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir." Neal felt like he was going to start to cry again. "I'm sorry! Please, Peter, I learned my lesson!"

Ignoring his pleas, Peter ordered, "Grab your ankles."

Neal's eyes grew wide. He just realized that Peter was holding a wooden spoon from his kitchen. He swallowed. "Wait, Peter, wait." Neal took a step backward. "Can't I go over your lap again?" Neal wasn't sure how to tell Peter that he needed to feel Peter's arms around him while getting a spanking. It made him feel safe.

Peter paused, wondering what motivated Neal to ask such a question. He thought Neal was trying to just get out of a more severe spanking, so he said, "Not for lying. After your punishment is over, we can discuss your spanking preferences, but right now, you need to grab your ankles, Neal. I'm not going to tell you a third time."

Shaking, Neal reached down and grasped his ankles. He tried to keep his legs close together, for his own sense of modesty, but his sense of balance was off. He ended up standing with his feet about shoulder width apart. His hamstrings were pulled taut, the muscles from his calves to his buttocks clearly defined. He felt tears well up in his eyes. He knew it was irrational, but he felt like Peter was being cold. His rebuff, while gentle, made Neal feel that their relationship would never be set to rights, and some of the earlier panic he felt about his lies damaging his relationship with Peter resurfaced. All Neal could focus on was Peter's displeasure with him. The sense that he had disappointed Peter was overwhelming. The thought of Peter spanking him in anger made Neal want to cry. He would do anything-anything-to repair what he had damaged between him and Peter.

Peter waited for Neal to position himself as instructed, then he stepped up next to him. He placed his hand in the small of Neal's back, and felt him quivering. "Oh, Neal." Peter said softly. Neal made a soft whimpering noise while he waited for Peter to start. Peter wrapped his arm around the the entirety of Neal's waist, with his palm splayed against Neal's belly button. Peter pulled Neal up, a little, tucking the young man firmly under his arm, and holding him tightly against his side. Neal surprised Peter by wrapping his arm around Peter's leg. Neal pressed his face against the back of Peter's thigh, feeling relieved now that Peter was holding him and he was able to hold him back. Peter stuck the wooden spoon in his pocket, and used his free hand to rub some of the sting out of Neal's poor, red bottom. Neal felt his panic and fears start to recede at Peter's gentle touch. "Listen to me, Neal. This is for lying to me. I can't possibly make you understand the severity of trouble you will be in if you lie to me ever again. I also don't know if I can make you understand how much your lies have hurt me, and upset me."

Neal burst into tears at Peter's pronouncement.

Peter rolled his eyes at the young man's histrionics. He hadn't even started to paddle him, yet.

He pulled the wooden spoon out of his pocket, and with one final warning of "Don't you _ever _lie to me again, young man!" he lit into Neal's bottom. The first swat made Neal cry out. The spoon left a concentrated, deep sting that was different from Peter's hand. Peter brought the spoon down in rapid-fire succession. Neal yelped with every strike; his cries soon lengthened from individual yips to one continuous yell. The wooden spoon left little red splotches at first, but Peter quickly covered the center of Neal's bottom in a dark, even shade of red.

It wasn't long before Neal started bucking up against Peter's arm. He was frantically jumping from one foot to the other, his bare feet kicking against the ground. Occasionally, when Peter hit a particularly tender spot, Neal would kick a foot up in the air instead of against the floor-and if Peter hadn't gripped him firmly around the waist, he would have landed face-first. The only part of Neal that wasn't actively resisting Peter was his arms-and that was only because Neal was afraid to let go of Peter's leg. Holding onto his mentor grounded him, gave him a sense of security. Neal wasn't even aware that he was fighting Peter so strongly, he was just entirely focused on the burn in his bottom.

Between the yelling, Neal was pleading, and begging, and promising. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I'll never lie again, never ever, please, please, stop, Peter, I learned my lesson! I'm sorry! Please! I'm sorry! Sorrrrry! Stop! Stop! Don't send me away, don't be angry, I'm sorry I'm a disappointment! Please forgive me!" He'd say anything if Peter would just stop already. Peter, however, was not showing any signs of stopping even though Neal's cries were upsetting him. He started aiming a little lower, but he'd already soundly smacked Neal's upper thighs. He didn't want to leave any bruises or long-lasting marks on Neal's skin. He focused his swats on the "sit spots," the lowest part of each cheek. He angled the wooden spoon so that each blow lifted Neal's cheeks up on impact. Neal soon was rocking up on his toes with each one of Peter's smacks. It only took a little longer before Neal hung limply from Peter's arm. He sobbed into Peter's leg a mantra of "I'm sorry, sorry, sorry, I'm so sorry!" Peter gave him six more swats, alternating between each cheek, to punctuate his sentence: "Don't! Ever! Lie! To! Me! Again!," but then he dropped the wooden spoon and ran his hand over Neal's red, warm, bottom and thighs to take away some of the sting. "Shh, shh, you're okay, I forgive you. It's over, Neal, it's over, and I forgive you." He reached down to pull up Neal's boxers. Peter extricated his arm from around Neal and was expecting him to stand up, but he crumpled to the ground after Peter let go of his waist. He stayed on his knees and buried his face in his hands on the floor, body shaking as he cried.

With a surprising amount of gentleness, Peter reached down and tugged on Neal's shoulder until he was kneeling upright. Then, he put one arm around Neal's back. In turn, Neal hugged Peter's neck, tightly. Peter gripped Neal under the arm and lifted him to his feet with an audible "oomph!" He gently pulled him over to the couch. Neal buried his face in Peter's neck, still crying. Neal was so focused on his burning bottom and the fact that Peter had finally stopped spanking him and was now hugging him, that it didn't even register where Peter was directing him-at least, not until Peter deposited him on the couch. Even though he was sitting on a cushioned surface, he quickly twisted around until he was kneeling-so that nothing was touching his tender backside. Still crying uncontrollably, Neal clutched at Peter. Peter abandoned his plans to get some pants on Neal and sank down on the couch next to him. He pulled Neal close, his legs draped over the couch. Neal rested his head against Peter, his face tucked up against his collarbone. Peter wrapped his hand tightly around Neal, holding him close. He ran his fingers through Neal's messy hair and waited for his charge to calm down. After a few seconds Neal clutched at his bottom and mumbled into Peter's shirt, "I know you say I'm not s'posed to rub out the sting, but it'll sting for a long time, Peter."

Peter let out a soft chuckle. He pulled Neal's hands away. "Just hug me, okay, Neal? Until you're ready to go put on pants." Neal wrapped his arms around Peter, and tried to stop the tears from falling. Peter ran circles on Neal's back. All the while he spoke soft, kind things to Neal: "I forgive you, I'm not angry, it's okay, next time please just trust me instead of lying to me, shh, you're okay, I forgive you." Eventually Neal stopped crying, but his breathing was still ragged.

After another minute, Neal finally spoke. "I'm really, really sorry, Peter."

"I know. I forgive you."

Neal sniffed and added, "Thanks. For the spanking."

Peter's eyebrows shot up into his hairline. "You're welcome?" His tone made it a question. He hadn't expected to be thanked for giving a spanking. After a second, he added, "I'll do it anytime you need one," which made Neal give a small laugh.

The two sat on the couch for another minute, quiet. Neal finally asked, "Can I go put on pants, now?"

"Yeah. Put on your pajamas and go wash your face. I'll be here." Neal scurried off Peter's lap, and Peter moved into the kitchen to give him a sense of privacy. Leaning against the counter, he decided to make chocolate milk for the two of them. They still had to discuss the fact that Ammon was expecting the journal by midnight.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I love you guys, I really do...thanks for all the feedback. M and I had quite a discussion about the particular turn of phrase in the previous chapter which caused such a reaction...we ended up leaving it, because, as he said, "It's artistic, and besides, it'll appeal to the guys looking for slash but won't bother the guys who are just wanting a good old-fashioned spanking."

Clearly, you have expressed yourselves; you can't please everyone and I shouldn't have tried. Sorry! I promise to keep this story more on the "G" rated end of the spectrum. I might even go back and edit it out...except that seems like extra work at the moment...

Also, I was trying really hard to get the spanking position described just right, I'm sorry if it was unclear or confusing...the "under the arm" position was what I was going for, because over-the-laps were getting kind of boring. I also wanted Neal and Peter to have that physical contact, instead of just bending Neal over the edge of his bed or the arm of the couch...suggestions or requests for future spanking positions?

We'll be returning to our regularly scheduled plot line in the next chapter (goal is to have it up by Wednesday), and who knows, Neal might end up in hot water again before the story is all over and done!

kiss kiss!


	13. In Which Neal Phones An Old Friend

Peter rummaged around the kitchen until he found some chocolate powder. He gave an internal eye-roll when he realized it was gourmet chocolate from Ghirardelli. Leave it to Neal to have luxury cocoa-mix. He made a mental note to buy the kid some Hershey's syrup. He mixed two glasses of chocolate milk, retrieved Neal's phone from the kitchen table and headed over to the couch. He set everything down on the coffee table. He kicked his feet up and waited for Neal to emerge from his giant walk-in closet.

Neal walked into his sitting room on quiet feet. After his first spanking, he felt embarrassed and unsure what Peter was thinking. He was starting to feel some of the same uncomfortable embarrassment, so he approached Peter with a bit of nervousness.

"Hey kid. Come sit down." Peter handed him a glass, and Neal looked at it with raised eyebrows.

Defensively, Peter added, "Chocolate milk is good for my soul, okay? Just drink it."

Neal took a sip, and told Peter, "I don't think I've had chocolate milk since I got it in the school lunch line."

Peter was quiet a minute, and then finally told Neal, "My dad used to make me a glass after I had gotten in trouble. It was, I guess, how I knew he wasn't mad at me anymore."

Neal looked at Peter, dumbfounded. "Seriously? You used to get in trouble?"

"Shut up and drink your chocolate milk." Peter said, laughingly.

"I can't believe Special Agent Burke wasn't always a goodie-two-shoes." Neal looked at his chocolate milk in a whole new light when he realized Peter was trying to reassure him that he really was forgiven. The idea that Peter had been spanked too somehow made the whole experience easier for Neal.

"Yes. I occasionally got into trouble as a kid." Peter grinned and took a sip of his chocolate milk.

Neal took a long gulp of his chocolate milk, and set the glass on the coffee table. "What did you possibly do, Mister-Straight-and-Narrow-FBI-Agent, what did you do as a kid to get in trouble?" Neal's voice held a small hint of amusement, but he was also really curious.

"I'll tell you, someday. Right now we have some other things to discuss." Peter was not about to relieve his childhood pranks and stubborn wilfulness. No doubt it would give Neal reason to justify his actions again.

Neal rolled his eyes, and finished his chocolate milk.

"You need to contact Ammon." Neal was suddenly thankful that he didn't have a mouthful of milk when Peter spoke because he would've sprayed it all over the coffee table.

Neal tried to hand Peter his phone. "No, that's okay."

Peter sighed. "Call or text him, and tell him you have the journal. Set up a meet. Not for tonight, though."

Neal picked at his thumbnail. "Why?"

"Because you're in enough hot water at work with two forgeries containing your signature, I can't hold back Jones and Diana if you don't come clean tomorrow. If another robbery took place, they'd have to bring you in for questioning."

"They really think I stole it?"

Peter shrugged. "They don't know what to think. We've worked all weekend, and look at the evidence and footage we have-Ammon did a good job of setting you up, and since he scared you into silence, we haven't gotten any feedback from you."

Neal nodded, and picked up his phone. He understood what Peter was saying, but it still stung a little to be the subject of an investigation. He set down the phone before dialing. Instead, he retrieved his laptop. He clicked around and set the phone on the laptop keyboard before dialing the number that had texted him. He put the phone on "speaker" and waited impatiently as it started ringing.

"Hello? Dan?" He set the phone on the keyboard.

"Davis?" Neal was expecting Ammon, and was surprised to hear someone else's voice.

"Yeah man, what's up? Ammon said I'm supposed to collect the package, or you, by tomorrow." Peter's face darkened at the threat to Neal. Neal motioned frantically for Peter to be quiet.

"He didn't tell you I'm not a free man? I'm tethered to the FBI, there's nowhere to take me."

"You think we'd be dumb enough to drag you back to Saint Louis with the tracker intact?" Davis laughed.

The blood drained out of Neal's face at the threat of kidnapping. "When and where would you like to meet?" He kept his voice steady, with an air of casualness.

"You have the package?" Davis' voice was surprised. "I thought you were tethered."

"If you knew it was out of my radius, why didn't you go get it?" Neal tried to control the surge of anger he felt.

"Not my assignment, hombre. I've got my crew to worry about these days. Boss sent me up here, but I want to get back to my crew. I'm not tryin'a complicate my life."

"Alright. Whatever. Look, I just want Ammon off my back, okay? When can we meet so I can get rid of this journal?"

"Oh, shit, you found it?"

"Yes."

"The cops didn't ruin your plans?" Davis laughed. Neal bit his tongue to keep from cursing at him. Davis finally answered Neal's question. "Are you free in a few hours?"

Peter shook his head firmly "No."

Neal motioned Peter away, not needing him to get involved in this phone conversation. "Can I get it to you tomorrow on my lunch break?"

"I said you had until midnight, you asshole."

"Look, your little stunt with the police put the FBI on my back, okay? In fact, I'm kind of under surveillance at the moment." Neal shrugged at Peter when he saw his expression of disbelief.

Davis' voice was concerned. "Seriously? Keller thought it'd be funny..."

"Oh, I'm sure he thought it was."

"Man we weren't trying to cause serious problems for you." Davis sounded a little apologetic.

Seizing the opportunity, Neal asked, "Look, let me go into work tomorrow like everything is normal, and I'll meet you somewhere for lunch."

Peter was doing frantic hand gestures. He finally pulled a pen out of his pocket and wrote on his hand "PARK"

Neal tried to ignore Peter, but when he shoved his hand in his face he gave him a dirty look. "Okay!" Neal mouthed at the older agent, before leaning toward the phone and adding, "The park maybe?"

Davis was quiet for a moment, and then he responded with "No. I'll text you a site tomorrow morning. What time does your lunch break start?"

"11 am on the dot."

"Fine, I'll let you know where we're meeting by 10 o'clock. You better not be bullshitting me, Dan, if you don't have the journal, I gotta bring you to Saint Louis, so don't try me. I'm gonna be pissed if I have to give up my first class seat on the plane in order to drive your sorry ass home."

"I'm not going to Saint Louis, Davis."

"Then bring the package." Davis tried to sound menacing. Peter started motioning again, this time for Neal to get off the phone.

"All right. Bye, Davis."

"Yeah." Davis hung up, and Neal reached over to the laptop and pressed the spacebar.

He turned and grinned at his boss. "There, we got the phone conversation on tape, Peter."

"Oh. That's what you were doing with the laptop. Good thinking." Peter looked pleased.

Neal popped the thumb drive out of the computer and added, "So, I guess I have to bring this into work tomorrow." Before Peter could answer, Neal continued, a little dejectedly, "And, I guess I have to tell Jones and Diana about the blackmail."

Peter nodded. He knew that was going to be difficult for Neal, and wanted to reassure him. He reached out and ruffled Neal's hair. "You'll be fine, kid. Next time don't wait so long to confide in me, though."

"Yeah..." Neal shrugged, preoccupied with thoughts about going to work on Monday.

Peter reached for the glasses on the table and, on his way to the kitchen said as off-handedly as possible, "Let's discuss this last spanking, Neal."

"Um, not much to discuss, Peter, you made your point." Neal shifted on the couch, a little uncomfortable at the memory. "No lying!"

Peter set the dishes in the sink and then sat back down on the couch next to Neal. "I want to know why you asked to go back over my lap."

Neal avoided making eye contact with Peter. This was such an awkward conversation! Why couldn't Peter just leave it alone? Neal could feel his face turning bright red.

He finally choked out a reply, but it was mumbled and Peter couldn't understand him. Peter felt himself growing impatient, but took a moment to reevaluate his approach. He finally decided to explain himself, with a direct "Okay, kid, look, I'm asking because if you have a legitimate reason, I'm okay with letting you choose the position you're in. What if I ask you to bend over your bed, or put your hands on the table? We didn't really discuss what you were comfortable with, so now that it's kind of a neutral time, I want to know why."

Neal was quiet for a long time. He finally said, softly, "I prefer being able to hold onto you. Or have you hold me. It was okay after you put your arm around me." Neal avoided Peter's eyes, looking everywhere but at his mentor.

Peter was quiet for a moment, processing what Neal said. "Alright. I understand that."

"If I'm still allowed to explain what I didn't like about that last spanking, you should know I didn't like that wooden spoon." Neal looked at Peter, a slight impish grin on his face. He added emphatically, "At all."

"I don't like the wooden spoon either, kid, but I dislike you lying to me more." Peter responded with a small smile. "What would you suggest I use instead of a wooden spoon? Would you like me to get a real paddle? Or a belt? A hairbrush"

Neal gulped, wondering if Peter was making a threat. "No..." He shook his head.

"Lying to me is always going to get you a more severe spanking. If you're honestly not okay with how I choose to deliver it, then we can work something out. My dad used to rinse my mouth out with soap for lying or cursing. So that's an option, too, if you think a paddling is unreasonable."

"Peter, what is this, the 1950s?" Neal exclaimed with slight horror. He couldn't believe Peter had actually suggested rinsing his mouth out with soap.

Completely ignoring Neal's shocked expression, Peter continued thoughtfully, "Irish Spring leaves a very distinct taste that doesn't go away for hours, you know. The sting from the spanking disappears sooner."

"Do I have a choice in this?" Neal crossed his arms and glared at Peter.

"Sure. The best choice would be to not lie to me." Peter smiled, his tone clearly teasing. Seeing that Neal was really a little bothered, Peter sobered and patted Neal's knee. "Yeah, of course you do, Neal. Remember, we agreed that if you're not totally okay with this, or comfortable, then we don't have to keep this arrangement. When you got that panic attack after I put you in the corner: that really bothered me. I don't want you to ever feel fear because of me."

"I know. And I...I mean, I don't like getting spanked, Peter. But we already discussed it. I need those boundaries. And also, a spanking lets me I know I'm forgiven when I've done something I shouldn't have..." Neal struggled to put his feelings into words. "I just didn't like it, this last time, when I thought you were angry at me when you spanked me." Neal smoothed his hair back out of his eyes, his pale fingers a contrast against his dark locks. He made eye contact with Peter, as he clarified, "When you wouldn't hold me, it was like you were keeping me at a distance and I thought it was because you were angry at me."

"Ah." Peter nodded as he finally understood Neal's concerns. "That wasn't my intention, to make you feel that way."

Neal was quiet, so Peter asked, "As long as I'm holding you, you're okay?"

Neal gave a tentative nod.

"Even if I use a paddle?"

"Does it hurt worse than that stupid spoon?"

"How about you tell me, next time I catch you lying." Peter tried to keep the smile off his face, but the expression of disgust Neal wore when he said "that spoon" amused him.

Neal made a face at Peter. "No lying."

"Good." Peter patted Neal's shoulder. "Go brush your teeth, Neal, it's time for bed."

"Why do you always send me to bed, after..." Neal's voice trailed off, wondering if it was okay to argue with Peter about this.

Peter gave Neal a stern look, which resulted in Neal jumping to his feet and heading toward the bathroom. Once Neal was out of earshot, Peter muttered under his breath, "Basically, because I don't want to wonder what you're up to after I leave." Peter suspected Neal would call Mozzie and probably end up in the middle of some sort of trouble again.

Neal emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later and made his way to his bed. He sat down and gave Peter a hopeful look, but when Peter walked over to tuck him in, he scowled and lay back with an exaggerated sigh.

"It's too early, seriously," Neal fussed. Peter ignored him and unfolded the blanket at Neal's feet. He drew it up around his shoulders and smoothed Neal's hair off his forehead.

"Goodnight, kid."

"I don't want to go to sleep. It's barely 9 o'clock!" Neal grouchily rolled over so his back was facing Peter.

Peter rolled his eyes and gave Neal's shoulder a small rub. "I know. But you're tired, whether you realize it, or not. Also, you know, I expect to see you at work early tomorrow. We've got the docent from the museum, and a few art experts coming in to verify the nonsense that Ammon left for us. It's going to be busy. Before all of that, though, you need to share your evidence and proof of blackmailing. Do you want me to stay until you fall asleep?" Peter looked down at Neal, who was hugging a pillow to his chest.

Neal shrugged, so Peter sat down next to him, and continued to rub his back. It wasn't long before the tension in Neal's shoulders smoothed out, and his breathing evened. Peter rolled his eyes at Neal's determined refusal to go to bed, because he was clearly exhausted. The fact that Neal was barely fighting him on an early bedtime was indication enough. Peter was exhausted himself from the emotional roller coaster of the past few hours.

Once he was sure Neal was asleep, he quietly stood and shut off all the lights before making his way to his car, and home to El.

* * *

**Author's Note: **

Ah, my lovely readers...I'm sorry to make you think I wasn't continuing this story at all-no, no, I have a plot line mapped out and I'm organizing and writing my chapters! I'm not giving up on it. I just needed to take a break. I was getting reviews saying Peter was being abusive and at the same time I was getting reviews saying the discipline wasn't severe enough and that I needed to have Peter beat Neal black-and-blue. I needed a break to clear my head and reevaluate the dynamic between the two, that's all.

I will always have present in my spanking scenes this element of control. Peter will never fly off the handle and smack Neal around-he's always going to communicate with Neal about his actions, their consequences, and then comfort him after he spanks or paddles him. Even if Neal really and truly messes up in spectacular fashion, Peter isn't going to fly off the handle, so to speak. However, Peter might be more stern over some issues than others. His goals are to ensure trust stays open between Neal and him, and to set those boundaries and consequences for Neal-you know, those consequences that don't involve Peter locking Neal up in handcuffs and dragging him back to prison. It's just as emotionally frustrating and exhausting for Peter as it is for Neal. I just wanted to clarify where I'm coming from, for you guys. My intention is to never have Peter be angry or abusive with Neal. Ever. They don't have that type of relationship. There is genuine care and respect. This is also, in my head-cannon anyway, a little bit of a new experience for the two of them. They're still dialoguing (hopefully in a healthy way) about what works and what doesn't.

I'm glad you guys liked my one-shot; thank you for the kind reviews. That's what I was doing while clearing my head about this story. I'm always-always-open to suggestions and writing prompts. To the other reader who gave me a prompt: I'm giving serious consideration to your request for a tickling story...I haven't read many of those, or even written one before, so I'm trying to envision the scene properly. Let me stew on this for a while and see what plot bunnies come roaring to life.

Sorry I haven't responded one-on-one to each of you who have taken the time to leave me a review. I am going to, eventually...I promise...thank you for the kind words!

kiss, kiss!


	14. In Which Neal's Name Is Cleared

Neal shifted uncomfortably, the leather chair in the conference room creaking. He wasn't sore from yesterday-the redness was completely gone-but he was embarrassed at the memory. He was not looking forward to announcing he was being blackmailed-and he really didn't want to give up the copy of the journal. Mozzie was going to be furious. With a sigh, Neal straightened the stack of books and pictures and printed documents on the table in front of him, and waited for everyone else to file in so the work day could start.

Jones was the first, and he set down his cup of coffee on the table and nodded at Neal in greeting. Diana was on his heels, looking energized. "Have a good weekend?" She smiled at Jones and Neal in greeting.

"It was...eventful." Neal answered. All three turned in unison when they heard Peter step through the glass door. He, too, was holding a mug of coffee.

"Okay, guys, the museum curator will be here in an hour." Peter leaned against the window. "Before they get here, do you guys have anything?"

Diana shot Jones a look, wondering if he was going to voice his concerns about Neal. They had spent considerable time on the phone Sunday afternoon discussing Peter's inaction and the mounting pile of evidence against Neal.

Neal cleared his throat. "I have some stuff you guys need to see."

"Let's see it." Jones leaned back in his chair.

"Well, Ammon slipped me something during the hand-off. I didn't find out until later. But, this is what it was." Neal held up the thumb drive. He tossed it to Diana, "Want to plug it in?"

Diana caught it smoothly, and stood up to plug it into the large computer display at the end of the conference room.

"It's a threat. He wanted me to find something for him. He said if I didn't, he'd start stealing more paintings and leaving forgeries with my signature in them."

Diana couldn't help herself, she made a little scoffing noise. "Wait, what?"

"Yeah, look at the last document, the .jpeg file." Neal shrugged.

Diana made a few clicks and was surprised to see pictures of the paintings they had in evidence. She looked at Peter over her shoulder. He raised his eyebrows, and looked at Neal, waiting for him to continue.

"He said that he'd give me until today, noon, to find what he wanted and turn it into him." Diana opened up the word document and read it thoughtfully.

"Today, noon?" Jones asked.

"Yeah." Neal shifted, and looked at Peter. He gave a slight nod to encourage Neal.

"So, this is what he wanted." Neal pushed the two journals over to Jones. "I spent most of the weekend tracking it down, and making a copy. One of those is my forgery."

Jones opened the cover and his eyes popped open wide. "Well, well. Is this what I think it is, Neal?"

"Yeah. It is." Neal shifted again. "Anyway, if I don't get it to his minion, Davis, by noon, he's gonna steal more paintings and release more forgeries. And he also threatened to kidnap me."

Diana turned and shot Neal a serious look. "You have proof of that?"

"Yes, the audio file." Diana opened it, and everyone in the room listened with rapt attention. Peter caught Neal's eye and nodded his approval. Neal brightened visibly.

After the file finished, Neal cleared his throat. "So, that's everything. I know, um, I know it looks suspicious, those paintings. But I didn't...I didn't steal it. I really did hand it over, and then the agents took it. They took it, and that was the last time I saw it." Neal shrugged, a little helplessly.

Diana reviewed the files on the thumb drive again, and turned to Neal. "This answers a lot of questions that we had. Ammon planted some pretty convincing evidence. I think this, and especially the phone call, clears your name."

Neal gave Diana a grateful look.

"Do you think Davis would flip on Ammon? Give testimony that he has the Portraits of a Young Sailor?" Jones leaned back in chair and took a swig of coffee. "Maybe he could tell us who was forging them?"

Diana shot Neal a curious look. "Maybe you could look at them, along with the guys from the museum and insurance agencies. You've got a good eye, and there aren't that many people in your..." Diana hesitated to find the right word, "community."

"Community?" Neal grinned.

"Community of art thieves." Diana grinned.

"Alleged art thieves." Neal smiled, glad some of the tension from earlier had clearly dissipated.

Peter walked toward the table, and pulled out a chair. "Before Neal does that, though, we need to assemble a team so that we can catch Davis when Neal attempts to give him the forged copy of the journal. Also, I would like someone from tech to get in here and plant a bug so that, worst case scenario, we're able to track Davis if he manages to steal it."

Jones pushed the two journals together. "Which one is the original that we need to log into evidence?"

Neal smirked. Diana stood up and peered at the journals over Jones' shoulders. She looked at Neal, and then looked up at Peter, expecting him to make Neal tell them which one was the one he forged.

Peter shrugged at his agents, and took a sip of his coffee. He figured Neal needed a moment to bask the fact that his forgery skills were unparalleled. His ego was really sensitive, despite all his bravado. "I guess we should look for his signature."

Jones started to chuckle at Peter's comment, even though he knew it was Peter's way of gently saying "I told you he didn't paint those forgeries." Diana and Neal were soon laughing, too. Peter rolled his eyes, with a smile, at his crew.

"Seriously, though, Neal, you're to work with the tech guys and get a bug planted in the forgery and get the original into evidence. Jones, Diana, get a crew together so that when we have a location for this hand-off, we can have eyes and ears at the scene, and I want Davis apprehended. Neal, let us know as soon as he gives you the location."

All three answered Peter that they understood his instructions, and began making preparations to carry out their duties. Neal reached across the table and pushed one of the journals toward Jones. "That's mine."

Jones gingerly picked up the original. "I'll get this checked into evidence and send a tech guy up here. Diana, you cool with getting the team together?"

"Sure thing. Do you know where this hand-off is supposed to go down?" She asked Neal, seriously.

Neal fished his phone out of his jacket pocket. "He said he would text me a location." He looked at the phone screen. "Looks like he wants to meet at the Barnes and Noble on Warren Street."

Diana walked purposely toward the door. "Alright. I'll get a team in place, and we'll have a mobile unit in case he changes the location at the last minute."

Peter followed Diana to the door. He reached out and patted Neal's shoulder. "Good job. I'm going to call the museum and insurance agents to explain the new evidence and suggest we reschedule their meeting until after we've apprehended Davis."

"Oh, and Neal-I need to talk to you in my office for just a second." Peter walked into his office, leaving Neal to look after him nervously.

Neal followed Peter, mind racing. _What could Peter possibly want to talk to me about? _

He walked into the office and stood in the doorway. Peter motioned for him to sit down. Neal complied, sitting on the edge of his chair. Peter set his coffee mug in one of the few spaces on his desk that was free from stacks of paper, and picked up a ruler. He flexed it absentmindedly, causing Neal's eyes to widen. When he realized what Neal was thinking, he immediately set the ruler on the edge of his desk, behind a stack of papers-out of Neal's view. Peter said "I just wanted to tell you I'm proud of how you handled that. I know you didn't want to give up the journal. And I know you didn't want to let everyone know you were being blackmailed. I just wanted to say thanks."

Neal brightened at the praise, his smile reaching his eyes and causing little crinkles. "I hope we catch him today, Peter."

"Yeah, me too, kid. Me too." Peter paused, and then shooed Neal out of his office. "Go get back to work."

* * *

**Author's Note: **Sorry this chapter is so short, and kind of a weird transitional chapter. I hope to update this weekend, though. If all goes according to plan I'll be back on the twice-weekly update schedule. Thank you again for the encouragement and kind words regarding the previous chapters. I'm considering introducing Neal to soap (that got a much different response from you guys than I was expecting!). I'm not sure if I have enough for another story line yet, or if I'm just going to do a few one-shots. Either way, I promise more Neal!Whump and Stern!Peter...

kiss kiss!


	15. In Which Neal Disregards The Plan

Neal was staring through a loupe at one of the forged paintings. Diana and the two museum officials were crowded around the other one. Neal was subconsciously cataloguing all the problems with the painting-the wrong type of paint, the ill use of lighting, the stunted brush strokes. He folded up the eyepiece and crossed his arms. He glared at the painting. It was too poor quality to even pass for Curtis "The Dutchman" Hagan's work.

"I don't recognize the work. I think it was done from a photo. I don't think the artist saw the original at any time before painting it. May I look at that one, Diana?"

Diana switched places with him. Neal elbowed his way between the art appraiser and the docent. He could tell instantly that the paintings were done by two different people, and said as much.

"How do you know?" The tall, balding docent peered hawklike over Neal's shoulder.

Neal looked at him in surprise. "You can't see the differences?" Neal paused, then launched into a detailed description of the many differences between the two paintings. He concluded, "I kind of think the artist of this one here, was teaching the guy who painted that one. I think he was mimicking the stylistic elements-you can tell how he held the brush, here, the strokes..." Neal's voice trailed off as he examined the paintings.

Diana glanced at the clock and interrupted Neal's musings. "Hey, we gotta go. It's time for the rendezvous." The left the museum and insurance officials suddenly feeling very out-classed. With a sigh, the insurance agent picked up the loupe and stared at the painting again, trying to notice all the problems Neal pointed out with ease.

Diana and Neal walked into the crowded conference room where Jones was busy briefing the different teams on their locations and responsibilities. One of the probationary officers was dressed like a Starbuck's barista. The rest were wearing plainclothes, or employee uniforms from Barnes and Nobel. Neal tried to pay attention to Jones' instructions, but was quickly distracted by worries of seeing his childhood friend again.

Neal had always been attracted to the white-collar crimes. It was easy to outsmart his victims; stealing a PIN for a debit card was child's play. Curtis Hagan and he shared a mutual love of artwork and the fine things in life, but Davis had been lured into the gun and drug trade because of the quick and easy money. By all accounts, he had somehow managed to stay out of jail-a miracle considering he started out running drugs across state lines-but Neal had no doubts that he was indirectly responsible for a great deal of violence. Keller had always followed Davis around, and the two fed off each other. Neal thought back to their childhood. Davis always hinted at violence when he thought he wasn't going to get his way, just like he had last night on the phone. _"I'll bring you back to Saint Louis, then, without your tracker." _

"Got it, Neal?" Neal jerked his gaze back to Jones, completely unaware of what he had been asked.

"I said, after you make the hand-off, go out the back door and go straight away to the surveillance van. Don't loiter in the bookstore. We don't know if he's got his own guys in there, or not. Okay?" Jones asked again, seriously.

"Straight away to the van. Got it." Neal nodded and tried to pay attention. He realized Peter was watching him from across the room, and he shrugged sheepishly. Peter's brow furrowed, wondering what had Neal so distracted.

* * *

Neal sat in a stuffed char in a corner of the bookstore, his forged copy of the journal in a briefcase at his feet. He twisted the brown paper sleeve around his cup of coffee and tried to focus on a book he picked up to kill the time. The words were out of focus; he was far too aware of his surroundings.

Peter and Jones, listening and watching from the van, were just as tense. They spotted Davis long before Neal did, though.

Despite his vigilance, Davis still managed to surprise him. Neal looked up and was started to see Davis sitting in the chair next to him.

"It's been a long time." Neal greeted Davis. He tried to see if Davis was armed, but couldn't tell if there was a gun tucked under his shirt or in a leg holster.

"Mos' def, brother. You got what Ammon wanted?"

"You don't waste time with the small talk." Neal glanced around to see if Davis had brought back-up with him. He didn't see anyone.

"Aint no need. You don't want to talk to me anyway." Davis grinned.

"Only because you're hanging around with Keller." Neal muttered as he reached for the briefcase.

Davis raised his eyebrows. "Keller is in jail, homes. Visitation isn't exactly what I'd call 'hanging out.' Are you just pissy cause he suggested I call the cops on you?"

"You know we don't get along." Neal rolled his eyes and popped open the briefcase, balancing it on his knees. "Before I give this to you, what guarantee do I have that this is it? I mean, is Ammon going to make me do something else, later?"

Peter felt his blood pressure rise. "What is he doing! Jones! Why is he bantering with him?!"

Ignoring Peter's outburst, Jones continued to watch the two on the screen. No wonder Neal was nervous. "You realize he's armed, right?"

"What?" Peter glared at Jones. In response, Jones reached forward and tilted the screen around so that Peter could see it.

"Right there. He's got something tucked in the back of his pants."

Peter cursed under his breath. "Get him out. Why is he dragging this on?"

Neal, meanwhile, was arguing with Davis. "Look, get him on the phone, or something. I'm done. I'm out. I can't go back to prison, and doing shit like this is going to get the FBI all over me. Tell him I'm out, and I want the original paintings returned."

"That's not part of the deal, homes." Davis leaned back in the fluffy chair. He shrugged at Neal. "You can talk to him. But you need to give me that."

Neal shook his head.

Peter felt his blood pressure skyrocket.

Neal flicked the lid off his coffee cup. It tumbled to the ground, it seemed to Peter, in slow motion. He realized immediately what Neal was about to do. Sure enough, he held the cup over the briefcase. Neal's voice came through Peter's headset loud and clear. "Get him on the phone, or I'll ruin the journal."

Peter ripped his headphones off and jumped to his feet. "Get him out of there. Right now. Who's the barista? Get the barista on the phone or is she wearing an earpiece? Tell her to get him out of there! Where the hell are the rest of my agents? I'm going in." Peter grabbed for the door handle but Diana stopped him.

Diana put her hand on Peter's sleeve, gently. "I'll go in. I'm sure he'll recognize you." She took her headset off, grabbed her purse, and slid out the back of the van. Peter slumped back into the chair and fumbled his headset.

"I'm going to kill him."

Jones raised his eyebrows at Peter. "Be quiet, boss, I think Davis actually went through with the phone call. I can't really pick up what he's saying, with your ranting. Neal worked for these guys for years, he knows what he's doing."

Peter glared at Jones, but directed his attention to the unfolding conversation anyway. Why couldn't Neal just listen to instructions and get out of there already? Did he not realize how dangerous Davis and Ammon could be?

* * *

**Author's Note: **Sorry for the long wait, guys. I should have the last two (maybe three) chapters up by the end of this coming week-barring no unforeseen life adventures. Work has been super hectic, and I haven't had a moment to myself.


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